The Boy With The Crimson Eyes
by nothelping
Summary: The only woman he'd ever wanted had left him standing at the altar without a backward glance. Six years ago she broke the heart of the man she loved. Leaving Vilkas was the hardest thing the Dragonborn ever had to do, but she had no choice. Now Vilkas was back in her life and it's the last place she wants him because she has a secret she'll protect at all costs, especially from him
1. Chapter 1 - The Wolf

**The Boy With The Crimson Eyes**

**Description**: The only woman he'd ever wanted had left him standing at the altar without a backward glance. Now he was a cold and merciless killer, utterly unfeeling, and there was no way in hell Vilkas was ever going to allow anyone to hurt him again like she did. Six years ago she broke the heart of the man she loved. Leaving Vilkas was the hardest thing the Dragonborn ever had to do, but she had no choice. She never expected to see him again. In fact, she'd taken great measures to avoid him. She doesn't blame him for hating her. She knows he'll never be able to understand or forgive what she did. But now Vilkas was back in her life and it's the last place she wants him because being around him again will only lead to heartbreak. Because the Dragonborn has a secret she'll protect at all costs, especially from him.

******Disclaimer**: Bethesda owns Skyrim and its characters. I just play with them.

**Chapter 1 – The Wolf**

_Leave me out with the waste_

_This is not what I do_

_It's the wrong kind of place_

_To be thinking of you_

_It's the wrong time_

_For somebody new_

_It's a small crime_

_And I've got no excuse_

_- 9 Crimes by __Damien Rice_

In the city of Falkreath, a lone warrior walked down a dark and empty dirt road as the moonlight shined down upon the sleeping town. The Nord moved with long, determined strides through the darkness of the night, avoiding the wildly dancing light cast by the torches carried by the city guardsmen as they passed him by, eying him with suspicion and apprehension.

_Wolf._

That's what they called him now. He was a predator of the highest caliber – lean and strong, a savage hunter with stony confidence, naturally adopting the role of pack leader and equally comfortable striking out on his own. He was dark and deadly in both looks and wit, handsome as the devil, exuding danger and feral intensity.

_Demon._

That was another name for him. The Nord warrior was as ferocious in battle as he was ruthless. A vicious, unmerciful killer with a blade in his hand. Dangerous and heartless, his prowess unmatched. The coldly disciplined swordsman was feared by all. A once fiery spirit now turned cold, callous, and bitter.

_Hero._

That was another name they used. The man was the Harbinger of the Companions, the Commander of the Blades, and a slayer of Alduin alongside the Dragonborn. Most people called him a legend because he could do what most could not, and with the great power and strength he held, he was a Nord warrior who's name would never be forgotten in Skyrim. Such was his reputation that his name alone could strike fear in the hearts of the greatest warriors and make strong men cower with just a single look.

_Vilkas._

That was one name only a rare few were allowed to use. He couldn't stand it anymore. Couldn't stand hearing the syllables in his ears. Hearing it reminded him too much of the man he once was.

The man he was with _her_.

But he wasn't that man anymore. Not after what she'd done to him. The feelings he'd once had for her were unlike anything he'd ever experienced with any other woman. She was the only woman he'd ever wanted and six years ago she had left him standing at the altar without a backward glance, shattering his heart without ever bothering to explain why.

Vilkas came to a stop and stared up at the sign for the Dead Man's Drink - the inn where he and his team were resting for the night before they continued on with their mission. The Nord warrior was well over six feet of sheer power and broad shoulders, all hard muscle and immense strength. He looked supremely dangerous dressed in his ebony Blades armor, which was made from small square armor plates connected to each other by chain armor and sewn to a black cloth backing.

His lean face was drawn in harsh angles, ruthlessly chiseled, a wild black beard obscuring much of his face. His hair was raven-black in color and shimmered in the moonlight above him. It was longer than it had ever been, hanging past his shoulders. Wisps of hair swept across his forehead and dangled in his haunted eyes that were no longer surrounded by black war paint. His eyes had once been a bright silver color due to the Beast Blood that had once coursed through his veins. But now that his lycanthropy was cured, his eyes had gone back to their natural shade of dark gray, like the color of slate in the middle of a thunderstorm. After a moment, the Nord lifted his hand and pushed open the front door of the inn and walked in.

The tavern was full of patrons and a bard was playing a lute beside the fireplace in the center of the room. Valga Vinicia, the owner of the Dead Man's Drink, lifted her head from the glass she was drying behind the bar as the front door opened and a dark stranger stepped inside. The bard's fingers fell dissonantly from the strings of his lute and an ominous silence fell upon the tavern as the door closed behind the formidable man wearing the imposing ebony heavy armor. A dangerous lethality coated the air around the infernal looking Nord and it caused an uneasy tension to fill the room.

The patrons scattered in fear as the stranger stalked into the room - a sleek predator of sinewy grace, underlying strength, and calculated movements. His intense and piercing gray eyes studied the room and the people in it with keen intelligence and a dark scowl on his face as he headed for the bar. Even doing nothing more dangerous than simply crossing the room, the Nord in the black Blades armor radiated danger. Everyone in the tavern could see in this man the carriage of a fighter, to the man's very core. The danger he exuded was menacing and intimidating and most of the patrons left immediately, terribly unsettled and frightened of the dark stranger.

Vilkas slid smoothly onto a bar stool at the bar and signaled to Valga for a tankard of mead. Along with his mead, Valga handed him a small, folded paper. Vilkas opened it immediately and read the charcoal letters sketched onto the parchment.

_Wolf,_

_A resurrected dragon was spotted in the forest just outside of Dawnstar. Witnesses spotted a cloaked figure fleeing the forest and heading into the mountains. __Paarthurnax wants you and your team to travel immediately to Dawnstar to investigate. He believes this cloaked figure is the one who absorbed the soul of Alduin and is now resurrecting dragons. The suspect is to be arrested and taken to the Blades Fortress for interrogation. If the suspect is ever determined to be the abomination harboring the soul of Alduin, then you and your team are to use any force necessary to destroy such evil. _

_-__ Delphine_

Vilkas folded the paper and put it into his pocket before lifting the tankard of mead to his lips and taking a sip. His elite team was made up of ten of the most skilled, highly advanced, and specialized soldiers in the Blades. They were the best and therefore tasked with the most dangerous missions, which typically involved destroying any newly resurrected dragons and tracking the source. Vilkas was the leader of this special task force as he was the best damned killer in the Blades.

Vilkas' eyes caught the portrait hanging on the wall at the back of the tavern and the tankard paused at his lips, his chest tightening painfully at the sight of it. It was a portrait of the last Dragonborn - the slayer of Alduin. The young Breton woman used to be a member of the Companions and the Thieves Guild before she vanished from the face of the earth six years ago. Despite her sudden disappearance, she was still adored by the people of Skyrim as their savior.

A cold tide of bitterness and resentment washed over him as his eyes travelled over the woman in the portrait whose long flowing honeyed hair spilled in silken sheets of hand-spun gold over her slender shoulders down to her waist, her creamy sun-kissed skin that was smooth and flawless, and the greenest eyes he'd ever seen.

Vilkas tore his eyes away from the portrait, staring daggers into the wood of the bar, every fiber of his being soaked with fresh animosity and icy anger.

_Faye_.

He'd loved her. She was the only woman he'd ever loved. And she had ripped his heart out.

Losing her had been devastating. It had stripped him of everything. He'd had to claw his way out of the dark, bottomless pit of despair and depression she'd left him in. He'd had to strip his soul in order to survive the devastation she'd intentionally inflicted upon him, becoming nothing but a cold, cruel, empty shell of his former self. The man he'd been was dead. No trace of his former self remained - a man who could harbor genuine affection for another, a man who could smile and laugh, a man who was alive with happiness, a man who could feel something other than hate and despair.

The day she walked out on him was the day Vilkas vowed he would never love again, and he had not. He refused to risk the kind of loss and pain he'd already suffered. Of course, he had his fair share of women to keep his bed warm when he needed that, but no one ever compared to Faye. No one had stolen his heart like she'd done.

_I love you_… the Dragonborn's sweet, softly lilting voice washed over him, even though he had no wish to revisit the past.

_Large, mesmerizing emerald eyes darkened, becoming dark ivy in color as a long silky strand of blonde hair fell into them. _

"_Forever," she breathed, tenderly touching his cheek, as he slid into her, becoming one with her. "I will love you forever." _

_She was smiling that smile that was like a breath of spring, making his __chest tighten in response to it,__ her brightly shining eyes aglow with love. _

_Gods help him she looked so beautiful that it hurt. _

_His large hand gripped her slender, milky-white thigh and lifted her leg to hook around his hip. He soon found himself lost in the green of her eyes as he moved within her, wanting to fill every part of her until she couldn't survive without him. He could feel his soul colliding with hers. Connecting. Interlacing. Making any future separation insufferable, utterly inconceivable. _

_"Stay with me." His tone was hard and demanding mixed with a hint of fear, the words falling unbidden from his lips. "Always. Stay with me." _

_Her expression softened and her fingertips lightly traced his jawline. "Wherever you are, that's where I'll be."_

Vilkas cursed harshly under his breath as he sat stiffly, unmoving on the bar stool, jaw clenched and scowling into his mead. He'd put a lot of effort into banishing her from his memory. So why did her memory haunt him now? Why was he thinking of the Dragonborn when she'd been as good as dead to him for the past six years?

Perhaps she was dead. He honestly had no idea. Vilkas expected to feel something at the thought of the Dragonborn dead – satisfaction, sorrow, indifference – but instead he felt… nothing. Only hollow, bitter, emptiness from her unforgivable betrayal.

_"Faye Ashhart, you are the one thing I can't live without, and I never wish to be parted from you. I have, and will, love none but you." Vilkas' calloused hands grazed up her the sides of her neck and then reached up to curve along her cheeks. His forehead touched hers as he shut his eyes and deeply inhaled her sweet scent of wildflowers, the tips of his fingers curling into her silky golden locks. "Marry me."_

_The Dragonborn's small hands tangled in his thick midnight tresses, and brought his lips down to hers. His mouth slanted over hers in the most tender of kisses that held an aching sweetness. "Yes," she whispered, over and over into his mouth, as her tears came in full force, falling thickly down her cheeks. "You have my love and heart," the Dragonborn vowed in a broken voice as her slender body shook, shoulders jerking, clear trails rolling down her face. "By the gods, I give them to you freely, and with all that I am."_

_LIAR!_ Vilkas screamed internally, raging, hating how he couldn't erase the past that had once belonged to him, or the fiancée that had once been his, no matter how hard he tried. Vilkas lifted the tankard to his lips again and downed half of it in one gulp, the burning alcohol sustenance to his battered soul, his mind awash in the memories he'd tried so hard to forget, memories of wedding rings and broken promises.

He remembered being twenty-three years old again and standing at the altar at the temple of Mara wearing his new Harbinger armor while his twin brother and the rest of his Companion family, as well as his other friends, sat in the pews. He remembered standing up there, alone, in front of everyone he knew, the hour growing late, the whispers that the bride wasn't going to show rolling up and down the pews. He remembered staring unwaveringly at the front door, waiting, silently willing her to walk through them.

But she never did. It wasn't until he was standing in the room they'd rented at the Bee and Barb, holding her cruelly honest note saying she couldn't go through with the wedding clutched in his hand, his mother's wedding ring returned to him in the other, did it sink in that she'd left him. Even after everything they'd been through.

It seemed they had come full circle, Vilkas mused bitterly. He'd hated the Dragonborn the moment he met her - with her lack of skill and the way she always wore that dishonorable thieves guild armor - and now he hated her again. He'd thought that she was different from the disgraceful, manipulating thief he'd thought her when he first met her. But he was wrong. He should never have trusted her. The wench had exposed her true character. Her deceitful nature, treacherous ways, and heartlessness.

About a year after she'd joined the Companions, Vilkas and Faye had faced Alduin together - the last Dragonborn and the Harbinger of the Companions - and they had returned from Sovngarde alive and victorious with his mother's wedding ring on her finger. They'd gone immediately to Riften to be married the very next day.

Vilkas' fingers tightened on his tankard of mead. Gods, he'd believed her when she'd told him she loved him. He'd believed her when she swore forever when he'd put the ring on her finger.

Just proved what a fucking idiot he'd been.

A bitter little laugh escaped Vilkas' throat. He still had that damn note with those three damn sentences carved into it. Three lines. Three lines of hastily written words that had ripped out his heart, the depth of his heartbreak unfathomable.

_I can't marry you._

_Don't try to find me._

_You'll never see me again. _

The memory of those bone-chilling words, so long buried, hit Vilkas now like a dragon's tail to the gut as he stared with narrowed eyes into the tankard gripped tightly in his hand.

The night before she left, Faye seemed nervous, agitated, and slightly unbalanced. He knew now it was because she was planning to leave. Leave of her own damn free will. She clearly hadn't cared enough about him to tell him the reason for walking out on him the night before they were to be married. She clearly hadn't felt the same way he had.

She'd moved on quick enough, he thought resentfully. A month after she'd left him, Vilkas heard about how the Dragonborn had married Brynjolf, the Guild Master of the Thieves Guild. She had cut him out of her life with terrifying immediacy and precision. She'd disappeared after that, never to be heard of again. It was the last news he'd heard of her and it had been the final dagger to his heart, destroying what little was left. Her marriage had forced him to confront and accept the most painful truth of all. Faye had never loved him. If she had, she couldn't have married another man.

He'd gone on a year-long binge of self-pity and destruction after that - drinking non-stop until he couldn't see straight, getting into fights, and going through women like wind through the air. He refused to return to Whiterun and to Jorrvaskr. He refused to return to his responsibilities and obligations as Harbinger. He refused to return to a life without her. Not knowing when their Harbinger would return to them, his Companion family had elected his twin brother Farkas as acting Harbinger until Vilkas returned to Jorrvaskr, which he hadn't yet. Farkas was now married to a pretty Nord woman and had three children.

Back then he didn't know if he'd ever heal. The Dragonborn had become a part of his heart, his soul. When she left, it felt like something inside of him died. For one long, wasted year his anger, bitterness, and despair had turned into venomous resentment and loathing that festered like a poisoned wound until he was filled with nothing but disgust and hatred for her, an animosity that was so deep and consuming it corrupted him, turning him into something dark and cruel and vicious.

Delphine had found him then – found him at the bottom of a whiskey bottle and in a married tavern wench's bed - and had offered him a position with the Blades. The Blades were rebuilding their organization, turning it into a formidable army of soldiers that did one thing and one thing only - kill dragons. Vilkas had found it odd that a dragon was the leader of the Blades, but Delphine had told him that the Blades had made a deal with Paarthurnax.

Vilkas had gone to meet Paarthurnax at the Throat of the World. The ancient dragon had explained to him that while he and the Dragonborn had destroyed Alduin's physical form in Sovngarde, they had not destroyed his soul.

Vilkas didn't believe it at first. He saw Alduin's soul sink into the Dragonborn's skin after she made the killing strike. But Paarthurnax had showed him the newly resurrected dragons – dragons Vilkas had personally killed - and he knew then that it was true. Only Alduin had the power to resurrect dragons. Somehow the Nordic God of Destruction's soul had remained on this earth.

Vilkas knew Alduin's soul was strong. He was the First-Born of Akatosh, after all. A god. He knew that if Alduin was slain in battle that even though his physical body would be destroyed, his soul might not be if it was able to resist being consumed by the Dragonborn's soul. Alduin's soul might even be able to force itself into the body of another. Paarthurnax had told them that if Alduin were able to force his soul into another being besides the Dragonborn, then his soul would overpower the soul already housed in that being and would take on that physical form. That being would bear Alduin's soul and be tainted by it. It would become mutated, corrupted, and evil. Such an abomination could not be allowed to exist since Alduin would still be able to resurrect fallen dragons, still be able to try and take over the world and seek its annihilation, which meant his soul would still need to be destroyed.

Vilkas and Aela had joined the Blades then, willing to do whatever was necessary to destroy Alduin's soul. Their primary objective was to root out and fight ancient dragons while tracking down the creature that now housed Alduin's soul and was resurrecting fallen dragons. They'd moved from Jorrvaskr to the Sky Haven Temple and then to the newly constructed Blades Fortress in the Fall Forest located between Riften and Sunguard.

During his time with the Blades, Vilkas had developed a fierce reputation that left even the bravest men quaking in their boots. He had become renowned for his vaunted nerve and had proven his valor countless times over. His remarkable achievements in combat had allowed him to rise in rank to Commander of the Blades, earning him the title "The Wolf," a dreaded appellation that made his foes tremble. A ruthless warrior, the Wolf was known as a man of pronounced cruelty.

He'd made so many enemies that there was never a shortage of assassins sent after him from the Dark Brotherhood. Vilkas raised his hand to his throat to rub at the faint, thin, white scar across his throat beneath his long beard. During an assassination attempt, his throat had been cut, his voice permanently damaged after that. His voice had once been deep and smooth as honey, but now it was rough and guttural. Raw and damaged. Just like him.

So much about him had changed in the past six years. His flesh bore the scars of war, while his soul bore the scars of a woman's desertion. He wasn't _Vilkas_ anymore. He was truly _Wolf_, because Wolf had made certain nothing of Vilkas existed. He was a cold, ice-eyed killer now, carrying out his assigned tasks with a ruthlessness that could rival even Alduin's brutality. He was also bigger and more powerful than ever before, rock hard with a will of steel. He used to offer mercy and only killed when he absolutely had to, but now… now he killed with merciless, unflinching efficiency. He was like a shark - cold-blooded, focused, and deadly.

Anger and bitterness now coated his veins making him cold, callous, and utterly unfeeling. And he preferred it that way. It was better than the alternative of feeling the pain she had caused. He'd ripped his own heart out long ago to never feel _that_ pain. Despair, loneliness, hurt. Such pain was unlivable. He didn't feel the pain anymore, his anger was like an analgesic. Numb was what he did best these days. And kill.

He also flitted from woman to woman, something he never used to do. His sudden rakish behavior had become a way to temporarily fill the aching void Faye had left in his soul. But not even the consolation of warm female flesh could completely drive away _her_ memory. Every time he touched another woman it was _her_ body that he felt. _Her_ long, silky golden hair that was tangled in his fingers. The feel of _her_ was forever emblazoned upon his memory. Those other women meant nothing and only satisfied his body's natural ache, but never came close to his heart. Never again.

"You… Blade…" came a belligerent masculine voice from behind him, pulling him from his broody thoughts. Vilkas' body tensed on the bar stool he was perched on as he sensed danger at his back. "Get lost, dragon slayer. We don't want your kind around here. You'll bring us nothing but trouble and them fire breathers."

Vilkas' broad shoulders lifted and bunched as tension filled him, his senses heightened, his intelligent mind assessing and calculating. "The Blades have business here," Vilkas responded, his ruined voice scraping. "We leave at dawn."

"You leave now," the man barked as he shoved Vilkas' back.

Vilkas' jaw clenched, eyes narrowing dangerously. He didn't like being touched. The raven-haired Nord slowly turned around on his bar stool to face the man who'd shoved him. The man blanched at the sight of the stone cold face of the menacing Nord, his piercing dark grey orbs sharp and cutting as they sliced into him with barely leashed wrath. The man must have seen the promise of death there for he took a step back, recoiling instinctively while a shiver of fear ran cold down his spine.

Vilkas' mouth thinned into a dangerous line as his eyes shifted to the two men on either side of the man in front of him, dark grey orbs as sharp as knives cutting into their startled pairs. His scowl was black as he shifted his gaze back to the lout in front of him who was now pointing a sword at his chest.

"You are advised to walk away." Vilkas' ruined voice was a dark and foreboding rumble in his chest brimming with hostility and aggression. "I'll give you one warning."

"Y-You better leave now, m-mister, or I'll run you through with this here b-blade," the man threatened weakly, stammering in the face of such a violent and savage expression.

Vilkas moved fast, his hands a speeding blur as he snatched the sword pointed at his chest and flipped it in his hand, and in one deft motion, he shoved the point of the sword up and into the man's chin, going straight through the bottom and the roof of his mouth, piercing his brain. The man twitched slightly for a few moments, a slight gurgle of blood in the back of his throat, blood spilling out the corners of his mouth, before going limp, dead. Vilkas ripped the sword out and the man fell to the ground at his feet.

Vilkas spun fast and cut the second man's head clean off his shoulders while also grabbing the sword out of the beheaded man's hand. He flipped both weapons around while completing his turn-in-place, until he faced the third man. He held up the two swords and crisscrossed their blades beneath the man's chin. The two sharp weapons looked like a pair of scissors pressed against the third man's neck.

"Drop the sword or I take your head," Vilkas growled savagely at the man, his tone deadlier than the hard edge of steel pressed against the man's neck, his expression dark and fatal, the glare on his face sharp enough to cut bone.

The man did as he was told, shaking with fear as he dropped his sword to the ground.

Vilkas' eyes narrowed and shifted to the corner of his eye as his body tensed again. He spun around and threw one of the swords at the man silently creeping up behind him. The point of the sword was dead-on, sinking into the man's shoulder. The man let out a yell and fell back, the sword in his hand tumbling from his grasp and falling to the wooden floor with a loud clamor.

The third man lunged for the remaining sword in Vilkas' hand while his back was turned, but Vilkas spun swiftly, arm extended, his blade sinking into the man's ribs. He cried out in pain, clutching his stomach as he coughed up blood. Vilkas yanked the sword out and the man fell to the ground and lost his last gasp of air.

Vilkas stood in the middle of the room, his teeth bared in a feral snarl, the blade in his hand dripping with fresh blood onto the wooden floor. The four men who'd attacked him were either dead or bleeding to death on the ground at his feet, warm blood pooling around them.

Vilkas dropped the blood-soaked sword to the ground and turned to face Valga, his features savage and adrenaline still pumping through him. "Whiskey," he ordered, his damaged voice a rough scraping sound.

Wide-eyed and fearful, Valga tossed him the best whiskey she had. Vilkas deftly caught it before heading for the stairs. The stink of death and blood clung to him and his tension was so high it had become painful. His face impossibly set now, Vilkas took the stairs two at a time, heading straight for his rented room at the end of the long hall.

An hour later, Vilkas sat alone on the wooden floor of his rented room, his back leaning against the door, the pommel of his sword - Dragonbane - resting against the bed's frame beside him. The room was dark and cold. Just how he liked it. He had no use for light or warmth anymore. He was staring blankly at the ground, reluctantly remembering the past as rain fell lightly on the roof above his head.

A single candle burned beside the nearby almost empty bottle of whiskey. For a long time he wavered between unparalleled fury and gut-wrenching sorrow. He'd suffered unbelievable agony while fighting for the Blades, even being captured and tortured by a cult of dragon worshippers that were currently at war with the Blades for killing their gods. But he'd never broken. He'd survived. He'd endured.

But he couldn't endure _her_. She'd broken him indefinitely.

When the Dragonborn's image came unbidden to his mind, he drank to push it away, to forget what he had felt with her so very long ago. The alcohol momentarily freed him of the emptiness, the horrible sense of absolute desertion and betrayal he felt when he thought of her. And when alcohol didn't work to shut her out, he gave himself up to a woman's willing embrace to try and drive away her memory.

Vilkas reached for the whiskey and took a long pull on the bottle, liking the burn of it, until there was no more.

By the Nine, he hated her. Vilkas hated Faye, and he always would. He hated her absolutely. He hated her because she was a liar. He hated her for betraying him. He hated her for the whore and the thief she was. But most of all he hated how he could not tell her how much he hated her. Frustration filled his heart and soul as he thought of the events six years ago. It made him want her dead, her flesh burned and her bones mashed.

Vilkas stood and stumbled drunkenly over to the bed. He removed his dirty and sweaty armor and boots. He pulled out the dagger he always kept in his boot and placed it under his pillow. He never slept without it. He'd been trained by Kodlak to always keep his guard up and that's what he'd always done. He had learned early on as a child that, if given the chance, people will strike first. Vilkas never gave them the opportunity to try and get the best of him. Never again.

Vilkas pulled back the covers and drunkenly climbed into the bed. The cool feel of the crisp linen sheets on his skin were a welcomed gift after the night's events of fighting, bloodshed, and death. Adjusting his pillow, Vilkas pulled the blankets up to his chest and closed his eyes. By the Nine, he was exhausted and the darkness and silence were exactly what he had been craving these last few hours. Sleep would be bliss to obtain. Trying to find a comfortable position, he rolled over onto his side, taking a deep breath, but then tensed as he heard the sound of breathing. Breathing?

Vilkas knitted his dark brow, his body immediately going on the offensive as he remembered the last assassin that had tried to kill him. The comely woman had taken him to bed and then dragged her blade across his throat while his back had been turned to her, nearly killing him and ruining his voice forever in the process. For one second the assassin had believed she'd accomplished her mission before the heel of Vilkas' hand had slammed into her nose followed by a quick snap of her neck.

Vilkas slipped his hand under the pillow and found the dagger. Gliding the cool steel out from its hiding place, he gained a better grip. Swiftly he sat up, dragging the dagger out from under his pillow and held it sideways in front of his bare chest, his tightly-corded muscles flexing and bunching with the movement. Vilkas' dark gray eyes narrowed, intently searching the darkness of his room as the rain beat against the roof. A flash of lightning lit the night sky from outside his window, illuminating Aela standing at the foot of his bed, watching him.

The huntress reached down and pulled her long tunic over her head, letting it fall to the floor. Auburn hair fell to her shoulders, her nude, voluptuous body laid bare for him. Vilkas' body relaxed and he slid the dagger back until his pillow. Though his head was pounding and he was not in the mood for this, he would not refuse her late-night visit to his bedside. He would not ask her to leave, though he was tempted too. It would be rude and pointlessly cruel to reject her after all she had done for him these past years.

Vilkas pulled back the covers to reveal his already nude form and rose to his knees. This was not the first time in the past five years Aela had slipped secretly into his bedchamber at night to indulge in a few stolen hours of lust. Out of all the women he took to bed, the huntress was the only woman he ever allowed to return, though never successively. That would be too intimate. It would give the wrong impression.

The huntress moved cautiously onto the bed, trying to read his face and determine his mood. His expression was neither welcoming nor disapproving. He seemed to be… waiting. She didn't try to kiss him, knew he wouldn't let her. The last lips Vilkas' had touched were Faye's, and Aela knew he wanted it that way, even if he wasn't aware of it. She truly believed that man wanted to die with that woman's lips being the last pair that had been on his.

Vilkas' lean, angular face was infernally handsome, even though it was covered by a thick black beard and framed by wavy raven locks. Aela's hands lifted and her fingers ran through his long hair that hung past his shoulders. Haunted, haunted eyes lifted to meet her steady gaze. Those dark, smoky-gray orbs were filled with unfathomable, deep-seated hurt and wretched anguish. He tried to hide so much behind his icy scowls and savage violence, but if you looked close enough you could see through them, see the crushing wretchedness and desolation that simmered beneath the surface.

"So much pain," Aela whispered as her fingers ran down his face and into his fully-grown beard that was immensely thick and untamed.

He brutally grabbed her wrists, halting her, and pulled her hands from his face. "Don't," Vilkas growled harshly in warning, uncomfortable with her touch and her words.

Wanting to get it over with, Vilkas pushed Aela back on the bed and her long, tanned legs opened for him. His hands began mechanically moving over her toned body, making her hotter until she was ready. As Vilkas moved over her, another flash of lightning lit the night sky, and it was Faye's softly featured face he saw gazing up at him. Something moved inside him, twisting his heart painfully as he saw long golden hair instead of short red, large doe-eyes the color of spring leaves instead of sharp silver, soft pink lips curving into a gentle smile instead of plumb red lips set in a sultry grin.

Vilkas cursed fiercely under his breath. _She_ left _him_! So why did this feel like cheating?

With furrowed eyebrows, Vilkas pulled back and lifted Aela's long-limbed body up and flipped her onto her knees. He pushed the lower part of her back down with his hand, spread her legs apart with his knees and pulled her closer to him. He took her hard and without warning, driving into her, over and over again, as if he could exorcise the memory of the one who'd broken his heart.

Aela's body tensed as Vilkas whispered something so softly, so quietly, that it was almost inaudible. But she heard it. It was a name. Not hers, but another woman's. The woman who had destroyed the man he once was. Aela remembered the empathy she'd felt the first time Vilkas called out Faye's name – his voice rippling with so much passion, so much pain and regret.

When they collapsed on the bed, sated, neither spoke as Aela swiftly slipped from the bed and began dressing. They never cuddled and she never stayed the night because she knew Vilkas didn't want her to. She knew his wishes. He slept alone. His solitary slumber was a self-imposed rule.

The Dragonborn had changed him, Aela knew. He was darker than he was before, colder and distant, callous and unfeeling. He only ever took her from behind, unable and unwilling to experience anything more meaningful than a slaking of lust. Aela accepted these unspoken conditions because this way she at least got to have him. The man had an advanced degree of sexual prowess after all, and was a brilliant and fierce warrior, every woman's temptation. She would settle for what little he felt free to give. And even though she felt a pang of jealousy every time Vilkas called out Faye's name, Aela knew she shouldn't. He wasn't hers. Never would be. And she wasn't his either. There were other men in her life that she shared her bed with, Vilkas was just her favorite, the most skilled. Besides, Aela had her own ghosts after all. Skjor's memory prevented her from forming any serious relationship.

When he was alone once more, Vilkas lay there, staring up at the ceiling, the rain falling gently on the roof above him. The reprieve Aela had given him was only a temporary one - hollow and meaningless - and the memory of the Dragonborn and the hatred he harbored for her had already come back in full blazing force, a hatred that was a burning, roiling pain in his gut.

Vilkas' eyes narrowed in fury on the dark ceiling as his hands fisted in the sheets, his grip so tight it turned his knuckles white. He swore, he swore on Kodlak's grave that if he ever saw her again, if he ever saw that heartless, soulless shrew he would make her suffer. He would make her pay for her betrayal, make her hurt for all the pain that she had caused him.

**Author's Note**: If you've beaten the main quest of the game, you know that Alduin's soul is not absorbed by the Dragonborn. If you speak to Arngeir about it, he will say Alduin may not really be dead, that he may be permitted to return at the end of time to fulfill his destiny as the World-Eater. That dialogue prompted the idea that Alduin's physical form could be destroyed, but that his soul could still remain and possibly be absorbed by someone or something other than the Dragonborn. Oh, and in case you didn't know "Vilkas" means wolf in Lithuanian. Also, this chapter has a soundtrack: _9 Crimes_ by Damien Rice. You can hear the whole song for free on YouTube.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Dragonborn

**The Boy With The Crimson Eyes**

**Chapter 2 – The Dragonborn**

_We were never the marrying type, oh no_

_We won't buy dishes or stained glass lights, oh no_

_For a table we'll never sit at_

_In the house that we won't ever get_

_I won't wake up and pick out your tie, oh no_

_You won't come home and kiss me at night, oh no_

_We won't lie in this king bed for two_

_Say goodbye to us saying "I dos"_

_No more white picket fences_

_No more lace veils or vows_

_No more "You're the only one" 'cause that's all done with now_

_- Last Love Song by ZZ Ward_

A lone woman stood on the peak of a mountain looking down at the snow-covered city of Dawnstar. The lightly descending snow was falling softly upon the snowy streets and roofs, coating the town in a fresh layer of crisp white powder. The sun was barely rising in the Dawnstar sky, its golden rays skimming the high edges of the snow-covered trees, brightening the sea of white with the advent of dawn.

The twenty-five year old Breton woman wore a heavy winter cloak that was black in color. The hood of her cloak was pulled over her head, covering her waist-length golden hair that shined like a beacon in the vast whiteness that surrounded her. A black cloth mask covered her nose, mouth, chin, and neck, concealing her identity. The only thing visible was her large, leafy green eyes that were fringed with black lashes that were so long they tangled in the corners. The young woman was petite, even for a Breton, standing just over five feet tall and weighing a hundred pounds.

She pulled her hood tighter around her face to block out the winter wind whipping her cheeks and turning them a bright scarlet. She hadn't set foot in Skyrim in years and the cold was already getting to her, reminding her of how hard it was to survive in this country when you weren't a Nord. The woman's slim arms wrapped around her slender middle for warmth as her small booted-feet shifted in the ankle-high snow. Her twin short-swords rested in the snow against a nearby tree, momentarily forgotten. She should continue practicing with her swords, she knew, but she hadn't stopped to watch the sun rise in so long and this one was… spectacular.

She forced herself to practice with her swords every morning in order to maintain her skills and stamina. Ever since she left the orphanage in Riften at the tender age of eight, she'd been raised in the life of a thief as a member of the Thieves Guild. By the time she was a teenager she could pick any lock with her eyes closed, sneak into any location undetected, lift a man's coin purse without him even noticing, but wielding a blade had never been her strong suit. She was better with a bow, but every fighter needed to be able to handle a blade in case an enemy moved into close range. When she'd joined the Companions, her friend Aela had dragged her out of bed every morning to spar and it was a habit she didn't want to break. She couldn't risk it. She was Dragonborn, after all. She needed to be ready for anything.

She'd been just a girl when she'd escaped Alduin at Helgen - a girl who'd only seen eighteen summers. A girl who'd only days later learned she was the last Dragonborn and needed to become a legendary warrior overnight and save the world. Overwhelmed and in urgent need of guidance and training, Faye had gone to Jorrvaskr, the home of the greatest warriors in all of Skyrim. She'd been surprised when Kodlak - the then Harbinger - had offered her a place with the Companions despite her few years, small stature, and lack of skill as a warrior.

More surprising was the way the Companions had welcomed her into their home with open arms. They'd done everything in their power to make her feel welcome and help her become the warrior she was destined to become. In the halls of Jorrvaskr, Faye had at once felt like she belonged, something she'd never felt before. She'd finally felt like she was where she was meant to be, that she'd finally found the one thing her lonely, orphan heart had always desired - a family.

That was also when she met Vilkas.

She'd been instantly captivated by his rugged masculinity, sharp silver eyes surround by black war paint, and dark stubble constantly shadowing his face. She was drawn like a thief to a jewel to his passion and intensity, impressed by his intelligence, and mesmerized by his heart that burned so brightly at times she swore she could feel it. The devastatingly handsome Nord warrior could turn her bones to jelly with just his nearness, could cause her breath to falter with just a look from those steel-colored orbs, could cause her blood to rush hot and wild with just a touch.

Vilkas had hated her from the start.

He'd thought her weak, childish, untrustworthy, dishonorable, and unworthy of the Companions. She'd trained and bled and fought to become stronger, to become worthier in his eyes, needing it with a desperation that had both frightened and confused her. Over time strength had come on the back of hard work, bruises, and broken bones and with it Vilkas' opinion of her had changed.

But they'd never been friends. Their personalities were too different yet too similar in ways, their interests too diverse, and they had nothing in common. Hell, they'd never even tried to be friends. Lust hadn't allowed the time. Theirs was a relationship born of magnetic attraction and overpowering want. They fought all the time, the result of two iron-wills clashing backed by mulish stubbornness. But the attraction between them was like a wildfire – hot, raging, wild, and uncontrollable. They'd gotten to know each other better in bed than out of it. That had been the crux of the problem, among other things.

From the beginning she'd loved Vilkas wildly, recklessly, with an edge of desperation that was all consuming. In was no surprise then that she had willingly offered herself to Vilkas and he had been the man to take her body's innocence with a passion and intensity that haunted her still. No one else had had that effect on her, and after all this time Faye had come to the conclusion that no one else ever would. But their relationship had been like an ember that burned hot and bright, but couldn't withstand a cold gust of reality.

The Dragonborn exhaled heavily, puffs of white mist blooming in front of her face as she shoved the unwanted memories to the back of her mind. There was an uneasy throb in her temples and a strain behind her eyes from fatigue, and the frigid winter air was only making it worse.

Talos, she was utterly exhausted. She hadn't slept or eaten in thirty-six hours. She was too busy running from the wolves that were at her back, that were always at her back. But that was what life was like living on the run, which was akin to treading water – continual motion without getting anywhere with the persistent threat of drowning looming threateningly over her head. She was constantly looking over her shoulder, waiting for the rug to be pulled from beneath her feet. She was continuously trying to stay two moves ahead. By the Nine, it was tiring. She'd never been paranoid before, but fear of being discovered was starting to rule her life.

She couldn't stay in cities or towns for fear of being recognized, which meant living outside in caves or tents. She hadn't slept in a real bed in years and had been forced to grow accustomed to sleeping on the hard and unforgiving ground or in a pile of hay. She couldn't take any jobs and make money for fear of being identified, which forced her to use the skills she'd learned from the Thieves Guild to steal from wealthy citizens of Skyrim in order to buy clothes, food, and weapons that were necessary for protection and hunting. She couldn't settle down and make a life for herself. She couldn't have a home. She couldn't go to festivals or celebrations, even those thrown in her honor. She couldn't visit old friends. She couldn't make new friends.

Tired as she was, Faye knew she had no right to complain. This was the life she'd chosen of her own free will. After so many years, her old life was just a dream - a dream that had ended with a bitter betrayal and an arrow to the heart. She'd made a decision all those years ago and it was irrevocable. She'd given up everything that she was, forgotten the Companions and the Thieves Guild, put aside everything to which she was accustomed, lost contact with friends and acquaintances. There was no going back – she could not change the past and knew she didn't want to. She'd chosen this life and she regretted nothing.

An image of darkly chiseled features framed by short, raven-black hair hanging into bright silver eyes surrounded by black war paint appeared in her mind's eye and her heart sank, as if it were strapped to a stone and tossed into a river.

Well, maybe there was one thing she regretted.

Thinking of Vilkas now brought nothing but remorse, loneliness, and pain.

_Six_ years.

It had been six long years since she'd seen Vilkas. The night before she left him she'd been determined to imprint every inch of his face and body into her memory so she wouldn't forget him. But time had turned that memory hazy. She couldn't remember his face and she couldn't remember the sound of his voice, no matter how hard she tried.

Faye knew within her heart that there was nothing in the past six years that she would take back, but that didn't mean she didn't regret. A part of her had died the day she'd left Vilkas. It had been the worst day of her life. She'd never known such agony. And it had been a pain that stayed with her, that was even now a part of her. Leaving Vilkas was the hardest thing she'd ever had to do, but she had no choice.

But all that was in the past, she reminded herself as she flexed her aching shoulders. She was a different person now, with a life that gave her the deepest satisfaction she had ever known. If only she could put an end to the nightmares…

Faye shifted her gaze from the sunrise to stare down at the town of Dawnstar with unconcealed longing in her jade eyes. She wished she could stay at the inn located below that had a warm fire, a soft bed, hearty food, friendly company, even if it was just for a little while…

Glumly, she shook her head beneath her onyx hood. That would be too dangerous, she thought with a heavy heart. If she were ever recognized… sweet Mara, she couldn't even consider the ramifications of such a mistake. The gods knew her life was hard enough as it was.

A memory rose unbidden from the dark recesses of her mind. She'd tried not to dwell on _that_ memory, but it came unwanted to her now despite her desperate attempts to push it away.

_Vilkas' hand fisted in her hair and yanked back gently, forcing her eyes to meet his. His striking face was taut, mouth thin and hard, sharp silver eyes piercing into her like knives. "Don't leave me, Faye. Don't do that to me," he whispered brokenly, like he couldn't bear to see it happen, the hint of desperation and echo of uncertainty lacing the severely spoken words. "If you do, I will hunt you down. I will find you. There is no place in this world you can hide from me. And I will make you regret ever leaving me." _

She'd left him a week later, after having left all those tears in his bed while he'd slept so soundly and unaware beside her. Gods, what he must have thought of her when he realized she'd left him. But she had no recourse except to run far and fast, to someplace where Vilkas would never find her. That, or be trapped with no way to save her own soul.

Faye paled, the blood draining from her face as she thought of Vilkas learning of her whereabouts. An uncontrollable tremor of fear rippled through her. He would probably try to kill her, she thought miserably, and he would most likely succeed. Vilkas was always so much stronger than her - with his hard muscles and imposing height, his power and ferocity, his severe manner and intense silver gaze. He was overwhelmingly male and had an inner strength that was unshakable and matched his formidable physique. Faye admired the man more than anyone she had ever met.

Vilkas also had unwavering determination and a strict sense of honor that scared her sometimes, but she had always respected it. His mind was brilliant and he always figured things out if he wanted to accomplish something or if his back was up against a wall. He was always planning, always calculating, always coming up with some newfangled idea to get what he wanted from others or protect his brother and his Companion family.

That inner strength and sense of honor also compelled him to act when he felt he or his Companion family had been wronged. Its what sent him on a killing rampage after Kodlak had been murdered. Its what sent him to Sovngarde beside her when she faced Alduin. Its what would undoubtedly send him after her if he ever learned where she was because he thought she'd wronged him.

Faye's stomach twisted with an old, sickening feeling of guilt. She _had_ wronged him. Terribly. She'd broken her promise to marry him like the dishonorable person he'd always accused her of being. She'd left in the middle of the night, like a coward, the night before they were to be married. She'd left without an explanation. She'd left him standing alone at the alter to be humiliated in front of his family, his friends, and the Companions.

Faye couldn't help but wince when she thought of what she'd done. She'd been so young then, a naive girl of eighteen and so full of doubt and fear, a victim of her youth and insecurities. Vilkas probably thought she'd never cared. He probably blamed her for what happened between them. He probably thought she'd betrayed him. He probably hated her and she couldn't blame him. She knew he'd never be able to understand or forgive what she'd done. But she couldn't help but wonder what Vilkas would do if he ever found out that _he_ was the one who had broken _her_ heart first.

Forest green eyes narrowed at the memory of Sovngarde – the memory that to this day still caused the dragon blood that coursed through her veins to froth and bubble with ire. Vilkas had told her what he wanted that day, and what he didn't want. He'd made it perfectly clear where his loyalties lied. He'd told her where he stood, and it was _not_ on her side. It was _he_ who had betrayed _her_!

Faye exhaled sharply as she rolled her neck on her shoulders to ease the tension that had built there. It didn't matter. None of it mattered anymore. To be honest, she never expected to see Vilkas again. In fact, she'd taken great measures to avoid him. She had contacts in Whiterun that kept her informed on the Harbinger of the Companions in order to ensure that she never met him ever again. Faye's face fell, her eyes downcast and filled with pain as she recalled all that she had learned about him over the years.

She knew Vilkas would feel honor bound to seek retribution for what she'd done to him – for wounding his pride and leaving him standing at the alter in front of everyone – but that would be the only reason he would want to seek her out. Vilkas was happy now… without her. He wouldn't want anything to do with her other than seek his revenge against her.

Her stomach twisted, tying itself into wretched knots of anguish. Her heart had died the day she'd heard that the Harbinger of the Companions had married a beautiful Nord woman six months after she'd left. It had crushed her that day to realize that she'd lost him forever.

Faye touched the slender gold band on her wedding finger and knew she had no right to be jealous or to feel betrayed. She couldn't irrationally think of Vilkas as hers when she'd married another man, despite the fact that every night when she went to bed she pretended Vilkas was in bed with her.

And, to add to her misery, she'd learned only a few weeks ago that the Harbinger and his wife had just had their third child together even after Vilkas had adamantly refused, over and over again, to ever have a child with Faye. She had posed the question to him multiple times when they had been together, expressing her desire to be a mother despite her young age. But Vilkas had refused her at every turn. He'd told her repeatedly and without leniency that he never wanted children. They cost too much, got in the way, took up too much time, prevented him from travelling the world and joining the Stormcloaks as he wanted so desperately to do. Children smelled bad and were too loud. He wasn't, he said, cut out to be a dad. Though he didn't say it, she knew the most important reason was he didn't want to become his father - a dishonorable man who'd thrown away his responsibilities and had left his own flesh and blood on the doorstep of another. But Vilkas' marriage and three children had forced Faye to confront and accept the painful truth that Vilkas had simply not wanted to have children with her.

The dragon fire that dwelled within her came to life, blazing like a forest fire across the green fields of her eyes. Vilkas may have been the first man she'd ever loved, the first man she'd ever taken into her body, but he was also the only man who'd ever broken her heart. He had cause to hate her, but it was almost as much as she had to hate him. He forced her into running. The past was _his_ fault, not hers. It was _he_ who had turned his back on her. It was _he_ who had destroyed what they had!

Faye's body suddenly stilled and her ears perked up as she heard the faint sound of swords crashing against swords in the distance. The Dragonborn's weariness and grogginess fled with sharp awareness of danger as a loud Battle Cry resonated fiercely over the clanging of swords.

"Azura's light," Faye muttered on an intake of breath at the sound of what could only be a battle of some kind.

The Breton pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and thoughtfully looked up at the cave she was hiding out in a few yards away, wondering if she should ignore the sounds of the battle and return to the safety of the cave. But her conscience immediately rebelled at the thought. Someone may be hurt. Someone may need her help. She should do something.

_This is a bad idea_, the Dragonborn thought apprehensively, chewing on her lip. _If you're recognized…_

But her conscience was relentless. It wouldn't let her simply walk away without trying to help when she had the ability to do so.

Faye sighed in resignation. _It's things like this that always get you into trouble, you know_, she chided herself as she pulled the hood of her cloak tighter around her face and pulled the black cloth higher over her nose and mouth. _And the very last thing you need in your life is trouble_.

She grabbed her twin short-swords leaning against the tree and took off, racing down the mountain through the snow toward the sound of the fighting. Her slim body moved like a deer through the snow-covered trees with a nimbleness and quickness that hinted at underlying grace and agility.

Her slender body leapt into the air and over a large boulder that was in her path, and she landed in the snow with a soft thud and a spray of snow before she continued running down the mountain, her black cloak billowing behind her. Her clover eyes narrowed as the wind picked up, throwing snowflakes into her eyes, blinding her momentarily. There was a whistling of the wind as she lifted her hand in front of her face and whispered a spell and a ball of flame leapt to life in the palm of her hand. The Dragonborn may no longer be able to Shout because it gave away her identity, but she could still use magic.

As the clang of sword against sword grew louder in her ears, Faye began hearing screams of death carried on the howling wind alongside flurries of snow. As she drew closer to the battle, she smelled the metallic scent of blood, the tang of hot metal, and the acrid sweat of fear. The Breton woman ducked under a low-hanging branch, her fast pace never slowing. Adrenaline began coursing through her as the sounds of the battle grew louder. She whispered a word allowing the fire in her palm to float forward, guiding her path.

With sleek litheness, she leapt forward out of the safety of the tall pines covered in snow that surrounded her and landed nimbly on her feet in a clearing, the air heavy with the metallic scent of blood. She pulled her twin short-swords from their hilts and spun them once in her hands as she had come accustomed to doing before a fight.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A massive, ebony mailed warrior was silhouetted, large and menacing, against a thunderous sky - a dark warrior on a snow-white field that was soaked crimson with the fresh spilled blood of his enemies.

The Commander of the Blades was breathing hard as he adjusted his grip on Dragonbane in his sweaty right hand, his ebony Blades armor covered in snow and dirt and blood. His black eyebrows drew low and tight over his dark gray eyes that flashed dangerously as they scanned the enemies that surrounded him, outnumbering him twenty to one.

Despite their numbers, the scent of their fear was palpable. Vilkas' lips curled into a vicious snarl like that of a demon causing the scent to spike. The scent enveloped him. Pungent. Knife-edged. Delicious. It was like an aphrodisiac. He inhaled the scent of their fear. Fed on it. Gloried in the power it brought.

"Attack me if you dare," Vilkas mocked, his ruined voice rough and scraping, pure wicked devilment gleaming in his slate eyes.

One of them did not hesitate. The Dragon Cult member gathered his courage and charged the confident Commander of the Blades. Vilkas swung Dragonbane back, his blade slashing clean through the attacker's neck. The Dragon Cult member stood there for a moment, motionless. Then he fell to his knees at the Harbinger's feet, and his head rolled away in the snow.

"Come on, you bastards," Vilkas growled, low and savage and deadly, presenting the point of his sword to his enemies in a taunting gesture. "Who's next?"

Another enemy lunged at him with his mace. Quick as a flash, Vilkas leaned back and avoided the swipe of the mace aimed for his chest. A malevolent growl welled up from his chest as he swung his dripping blade in an arc and jammed the point into the fool's throat in one swift motion, the end piercing through the back of his neck.

Vilkas was able to rip his blade free of the man's throat before ducking under another man's swinging blade, swiftly bringing his sword up and gutting the man from gut to sternum. He felt Dragonbane go through flesh and hit bone, saw the Cult Member's eyes roll back into his head before he crumbled lifelessly onto his sword.

Vilkas pulled out his sword and spun to his right, his fine blade slashing through a Cult Member's outstretched arm, severing the limb, before biting deeply into the man's side, cutting halfway though his torso. The man screamed as blood sprayed onto the white snow, staining it crimson. Vilkas didn't have time to end his misery and with a snarl he spun back to check one sword with his own before whirling away from a second.

A massive man charged at him with his war axe over his head and Vilkas threw Dragonbane at the man. The point of the legendary sword sank into the massive man's gut and the man stumbled back, staring down in shock at the blood-soaked steel sticking out of his stomach.

The Commander of the Blades turned and landed a swift kick to an approaching cult member's stomach and the man doubled over. Vilkas rolled across the man's bent over back and pulled the hidden dagger from his boot while he did so. Vilkas stood and with a flick of his wrist sent the dagger flying into the Adam's apple of the archer that was aiming an arrow at his heart.

Vilkas rushed forward and ripped Dragonbane out of the massive man that was still staring dumbfounded at the sword sticking out of his torso. Vilkas spun on the balls of his feet in the snow, using the momentum to cut the massive man's head from his shoulders, his head rolling off his bulky shoulders to land with a thud in the snow before the rest of his body followed.

Vilkas swiftly brought his sword up to deflect the two swords aimed for his neck and a ringing clang of metal hitting metal echoed in the clearing where the battle was taking place. Vilkas lunged and slashed his sword across an enemy's throat, cutting through bone and muscle. In an instant, flesh tore and blood sprayed. The man's hands wrapped around his weeping throat before he crumbled to the snow at Vilkas' feet. The Harbinger bent back to avoid the swipe of a sword, his back popping with the sudden motion. He spun in place, his arm extended, Dragonbane cutting into the armor, flesh, and bone of an enemy's chest before becoming embedded in the ribcage of another.

Warm fresh blood sprayed across his face and beard as Vilkas carried on swinging and slashing with his sword at who ever he could reach, growling and roaring with primal rage, his ebony armor becoming a canvas to the blood of his enemies. The Harbinger fought singlehandedly with vicious, deadly efficiency as he ran his blade into his enemies, blood and corpses filling the field of battle around him, the ranks of the Dragon Cult members visibly thinning before his eyes.

It was a massacre. The Commander of the Blades was brutally slaughtering the Dragon Cult members that had tried to ambush him while he had been investigating the recently resurrected dragon in Dawnstar, as Delphine had instructed him. The other members of his unit were in Dawnstar right now questioning the citizens about the resurrected dragon and its attack on the town. Vilkas had gone up into the mountains where witnesses had spotted a cloaked figure fleeing after the dragon had been resurrected in the forest just outside of the city.

The Dragon Cult was a group that worshipped Alduin and believed dragons to be the avatars of the gods. The cult was made up of mortal men and led by powerful undead enemies known as Dragon Priests. Thousands of years ago, these priests ruled over Skyrim at the behest of their dragon overlords. Upon death they were typically buried in one of the many ancient tombs and temples, dotted all across Skyrim, awaiting the return of Alduin the World-Eater. It was the same cult that had captured Vilkas and tortured him a few years back until his team had rescued him, led by Aela.

Fury flared in Vilkas' flint-gray eyes as he stared down the leader, the set of ruthless determination on his hard mouth. "You brought a lot of men with you to try and kill me," he grumbled, iron eyes blazing with enmity.

"You keep getting in the way, Commander," the leader spat in explanation, glaring hatefully.

A quirk in the corner of his lips formed as his granite eyes surveyed the corpses that surrounded him. "It wasn't enough, I'm afraid," Vilkas stated with a sharp edge to his damaged voice. "You should have brought more men."

"A mistake I will not make again in the future, I assure you," the Redguard leader snapped, shooting a baleful glance in the Harbinger's direction. "Our lord Alduin's soul remains and one day he will return to his dragon form. He will return to his full strength and when he does, snowback, he will bring the end of days with him. He is the fourth horsemen of the apocalypse, the harbinger of death, and the doom of all those who do not kneel and pledge their allegiance to him."

Vilkas' body became taut and lethal, radiating menace from every well-defined muscle as his lips pulled into a dark smirk. "I have met your god, cultist," he murmured, his tone low and taunting, "and I smiled at him while I ran my blade through his mortal flesh over and over again until he was choking on his own infernal blood."

The Redguard's face turned red with his rage. "You will pay in blood for such blasphemy, mark me!" The rancorous words came hissing from his thin mouth.

Granite eyes narrowed dangerously. "If it's death you want, cultist, it's death you shall have." The growl in Vilkas' voice was a malevolent roll of thunder that was fiercer and more intimidating than the roar of the fiercest dragon.

The Dragon Cult member lunged forward slashing down with his sword. Vilkas blocked it; then spun to kick his opponent in the stomach. The Redguard lurched back with a grunt. Vilkas immediately went on the attack. His memories of the torture he'd endured at the hands of these monsters increased his fury as he focused his anger on his opponent. Vilkas' movements and strikes were fluid and precise, his ferocity and strength almost inhuman. The most menacing and disturbing smile curved the Commander's lips as he sent blow after blow at the man, finally knocking him off balance to the ground. Fear shone bright in the Redguard's eyes as he realized he was gruesomely outmatched and swiftly rolled out of the way of the Commander's descending sword.

The battle continued for a few more minutes – the Dragon Cult member spent most of it regaining his balance and blocking than attacking. Soon the Redguard's movements became weaker. Vilkas ducked a swinging cut that caught the top of his helmet and toppled it from his head. Vilkas lifted his forearm to block another blow, but the force of it shattered his armor and left him with fresh blood pouring down from his elbow.

Vilkas blocked another thrust with Dragonbane and sliced his opponent's arm with the dagger in his other hand. The Redguard dropped the sword, wincing in pain. Vilkas followed through and turned to land his booted foot to the back of the man's head. The cult member dropped to his knees, barely conscious. Vilkas twirled his sword, and then with one massive sweep of Dragonbane, he struck the Redguard's head from his shoulders and sent it spinning above the battlefield to land in a pile of snow, turning the pure whiteness of it scarlet.

Vilkas was breathing hard from the exertion and he used the back of his hand to wipe the blood that was dripping into his eyes from the cut that split his black eyebrow. As he drew in deep breaths, the hair on the back of his neck suddenly raised and his body tensed as he sensed more danger. His upper body abruptly snapped to the side, his long black hair whipping around his shoulders, just in time to watch a wicked looking blade slash across his chest, cutting through his armor and piercing his skin.

Vilkas immediately rolled on the ground to the right to avoid another slash of the dagger. The Nord leapt to his feet, sword in hand, and found himself face-to-face with Hevnoraak, a powerful high-ranking dragon priest that wore maroon robes with gold scales running up the middle of his robes and down the center of his arms, a unique dragon priest mask covering his skeletal and morbidly decaying face that bore a powerful enchantment.

_Damn, they really want me dead_, Vilkas thought grimly as he stared up at the undead Dragon Priest.

Dragon Priests had no form of melee attack and were forced to exclusively fight with their elemental magic spells and their destruction-based staff.

Vilkas tried a feint, followed by a lunge to the heart, but Hevnoraak parried it and activated Ebonyflesh for added protection against Vilkas' melee attacks. Vilkas turned and sent a return cut that struck Hevnoraak's decaying upper arm. With a high-pitched shriek, Hevnoraak retreated and summoned a Storm Atronach – a greater ward to protect him against Vilkas' melee attacks.

The Atronach appeared out of thin air, a daedric creature that appeared to be humanoid in form but made up almost entirely of a single, pure substance. The Storm Atronach hovered over the ground as it moved toward him, its body appearing as a shattered statue with cracked, frowning face and chunks of rock swirling about its body, loosely connected by a matrix of electric arcs and dark purple storm clouds. Vilkas rolled to the left, just barely missing the bolt of lightening that the Storm Atronach had aimed for his head. Vilkas charged at the creature, hacking and slashing, blocking and moving until the creature was no more.

Vilkas turned his attention back to Hevnoraak. The Dragon Priest's fingers moved so slightly that Vilkas missed the motion and Dragonbane was ripped from his hand by an invisible force and the sword flew from his hand. Flying end over end, it then buried itself in the snow. Vilkas ran for his sword but the Dragon Priest zapped him with an energy bolt. Hevnoraak raised his spell-staff, clapping it into his open hand. Electricity sparked and sizzled, flying away from him toward Vilkas, hitting him in the side. Vilkas fell to one knee, his hand going to his side. Warm blood seeped out of his armor and through his fingers, staining them crimson. The Priest's hand flew forward and a spell connected with Vilkas' chest, sending him flying backwards. He hit the ground hard, grabbing his side as more blood seeped out.

Vilkas' teeth gritted as his eyes lifted to Hevnoraak who was summoning another spell. Vilkas growled savagely in the back of his throat. He flipped his dagger in his hand and with a sharp flick of his wrist he sent the dagger spinning towards the Dragon Priest. The point of the blade embedded itself in the center of Hevnoraak's forehead and the undead creature shrieked as its body crumbled into a pile of ash in the snow beneath the heap of its robes beside its dagger and staff.

Quickly looking himself over, Vilkas found several flesh wounds - a deep gash on his chest that needed stitches, several smaller cuts on his legs and arms, a nasty scratch on his jaw and neck, a worrisome gash on his left forearm, but the ebony Blades armor protected all the vital organs. The gash on his chest, however, was beginning to sting like Oblivion and smelled foil. He wondered if that ugly black blade Hevnoraak had used was poisoned.

Holding the deep gash on his chest together, Vilkas managed to push himself to his feet and started heading for Dawnstar where the healer of his team was located. Vilkas took two steps before he stumbled slightly in the snow, the poison already entering his system. He cursed as he felt his heart thump abnormally slow and heavy in his chest. His dark gray eyes started to glaze over, a cold sweat breaking out all over his body, cooling him down even more.

As he stumbled in the snow, his eyes caught something in the distance. He fell slightly sideways, trying to see past the flying particles of snow that were blowing into his face. The wind whipped past his eyes and he squinted, putting a hand up to his brow. There it was again. He started for what he thought he saw, but the poison was in his blood now and he stumbled and fell backwards in the snow, falling flat on his back with a thud in the snow.

The Commander of the Blades gritted his teeth as his chest flamed in hot pain. A tingling, prickling sensation spread through the muscles of his chest. The pain seared through the bone, into his chest cavity, searing across his ribs. He fought to move, but he couldn't make his body obey. He was as limp as a rag doll, a lone warrior lost in the vast expanse of snow that surrounded him.

It wouldn't be long now, he thought as he felt the tingle of the poison spreading out from his chest and into his limbs. He had seen too much of death not to know how easy it was to die, how quickly and mercilessly death could come.

He heard a sound and turned his head sideways in the snow towards it, his vision blurring with the movement. He saw, or at least he thought he saw, a Dragon Cult member approaching him, the snow crunching beneath their feet. His vision was swimming so badly he could barely make out her form as she walked toward him in the snow.

"I am going to enjoy this," the Dragon Cult member murmured, a sinister sort of glee to what was clearly a woman's voice as she drew closer to Vilkas' immobile form, her sword held tight in her hand.

Vilkas showed no sign of fear as he held a malicious glare at the Imperial woman, his dark gray eyes glittering with ferocity beneath his long raven-black locks, the thick black beard covering much of his face as wild and untamed as his eyes.

"Do not be afraid, Commander. Death is but the time to sleep forever in the Voi-" The cult member's words turned into a gurgle of blood in her mouth as the tip of a sword exploded from the cult member's chestplate, right over her heart. Mouth still open, her jaw hanging slack, she toppled forward face-first to the snow.

Uncaring, and unable to see anything but a grayish blob anyway, Vilkas looked away to stare up at the snowflakes as they fell softly upon his face, hair, and beard from a drab, gray, impenetrable sky.

Death had come for him, Vilkas realized, annoyed and irritated with its frequent visits. For so long now, he had flirted with the specter of demise with no real sense of his own mortality. Death was a constant companion yet something he neatly sidestepped while pushing others directly into its speeding path unawares.

Whilst the elements whipped at his cracked skin, his body began to feel numb to the pain. Vilkas closed his eyes, the snowy field his deathbed. How pathetic was it that such a silly little thing like poison would be the thing to do him in, he mused with dark humor. He'd always wanted to go out in a blaze of glory – an explosion, a legendary battle, or a dragon fight – not choking to death on poison while it shredded his guts into vermicelli.

Vaguely, Vilkas was aware of Death's cold fingers on his skin, touching his face, his beard, his hair. He heard a voice above him, Death's voice he assumed, but his ears seemed to be filled with cotton and he could not make out the specter's words.

Vilkas' lips pulled up in the corners into a devilish smirk. Dammit, he really wanted to look Death in the eye and tell him to fuck off.

With that in mind, Vilkas slowly forced his eyes open, ready to use his last breath to damn the infuriating apparition to Oblivion.

As soon as his eyes opened, however, his dark brows knitted in confusion as he stared up into the face of a young woman, the image swimming and severely blurry from the effects of the poison.

_Damn… the Grim Reaper certainty isn't what I expected_, Vilkas thought sardonically as he stared into the ethereal face above him surrounded by falling snow. His eyes narrowed as he tried to stop the image hovering above him from wavering and shifting so violently in order to get a clear image.

The woman leaned down toward him, her lustrous waves of long flowing hair spilling over her shoulders and down around him, surrounding him in its sunlight and sweet fragrance. She was saying something to him, he realized, but he couldn't hear her. He could only see her lips move as she spoke to him and then, without warning, those lips pulled into the most heart-stopping smile. He wanted to see her eyes - to see what color a seraph's eyes were - but he couldn't stop staring at her mouth.

Irresistibly impelled, Vilkas somehow managed to lift his hand from where it was lying in the snow at his side, his cold, rough fingertips caressing the smooth skin of her cheek.

_Soft. So soft. _

He turned his head slightly to the side to breath in the sweet fragrance of the spirit's hair that was draped around him.

_An angel. She can be nothing less_, he thought as his fingertips trailed down the smooth, soft curve of her cheek. _And she's here to take me back to __Sovngarde__. _

His mouth curved into an ironic smile as his vision faded to black and he slipped into the waiting darkness.

**Author's Note**: This chapter has a soundtrack: _Last Love Song _by ZZ Ward. You can hear the whole song for free on YouTube.


	3. Chapter 3 - Fianna

**The Boy With The Crimson Eyes**

**Chapter 3 – Fianna**

_Even the best fall down sometimes_

_Even the stars refuse to shine_

_Out of the back you fall in time_

_I somehow find_

_You and I collide_

_- Collide by Howie Day_

_Vilkas was distracted._

_He swiftly parried a thrust of his twin brother's sword in the practice yard behind __Jorrvaskr, his gaze following the Dragonborn as she moved up the path __to Skyforge __and then veered off it, into the tight cluster of orange trees behind Jorrvaskr. _

_It was almost nightfall. Where was the Breton going?_

"_You're distracted, brother. Do you want to stop?" Farkas asked, pausing in their daily training session. _

"_No… I mean yes," Vilkas uttered impatiently, absentmindedly, as his white-silver eyes searched for her. Faye had disappeared from his view among the trees and thigh-high grass. "I think I'll… ugh… why don't you train with Aela?"_

"_Okay, umm, if that's what you want, I guess," Farkas responded scratching his head, but Vilkas had already moved briskly up the path,__toward the tight cluster of trees. _

_Once Vilkas reached the edge, he turned and streaked off into the trees, looking around. _

_Faye was nowhere to be seen._

_What is she up to? He wondered with curiosity. There was no sign of her, yet he knew she had to be there. He urged his feet forward, his gaze roaming left and right repeatedly. "Faye?"_

_No answer._

_He walked fast, searching, almost nearing the end of the tight cluster of trees. He felt a touch of worry then. The woman could not just vanish, even if she was the last Dragonborn. A terrible thought occurred. Had she tripped and fallen, hitting her head? Was she injured?_

_His tone turned sharp with panic. "Faye? Faye!"_

_A laugh sounded._

_It was light and tinkling like that of wind chimes. It was hers. _

_Relief swept him. He whipped his head around, his short black hair falling into his light silver eyes. "Faye? Shor's blood, Breton, are you playing a game? Where are you?"_

_Another soft, feminine laugh, and then something hit his head, smack in the middle for his forehead. Vilkas' light eyes fell to the orange lying on the ground at his feet. Shocked, he jerked his gaze up to the treetop above him. _

_Faye smiled brightly down at him, green eyes twinkling, her long honeyed hair cascading in waves over her shoulders and down to her waist, her legs dangling from the high branch she was sitting on. _

_"What are you doing here, Vilkas?" The Dragonborn asked, the gentle question followed by another soft chuckle. _

_He smiled wide up at her. "What are you doing up there, Faye?"_

"_Picking oranges, of course," she answered sweetly. "Do you want one?" _

_His mouth opened to answer her, but before a word could escape she tossed one at him. He ducked, prepared this time, and it flew over his shoulder._

_The eighteen-year-old Breton woman peeled the orange in her hand and popped a piece into her mouth, her eyes dancing mischievously. "Why have you followed me, Vilkas?"_

"_Why do you think?" His smile brightened at her impulsiveness. "Where you lead, I will follow. It is irrepressible."_

_Her head tipped back as she laughed._

_A sultry smile curved his mouth as his silver eyes surrounded by black war paint dragged up her smooth bare legs to the leather skirt she was wearing. His eyes flickered up to her lovely face and his body heated at the look in her eyes. "Get down."_

_She raised a brow playfully as she popped another piece of her orange into her mouth. "But I am not done with my orange."_

_"Get down," he repeated, his tone sensually coaxing. _

_"If you want me, Nord, you will have to come up and get me," she called, and she climbed higher into the orange tree._

"_I am a Nord," Vilkas said simply, unmoving. "Not a Khajiit."_

"_If you want me, Vilkas, then you will have to come and get me."_

_His body flushed, blood coursing hotly, anticipation building. He raced forward and hoisted himself into the tree. He heard her laugh above him as he moved higher, reaching for her. She eluded him deftly and within seconds dropped to the ground. She took off at a run just as he jumped to the ground right after her. _

_He darted after her. He lunged for her. She dodged, laughing. He reached for her, laughing as well, and she spun away. He feinted left and she went right and he caught her with a cry of triumph. He clutched her petite form to his chest and she wrapped her slender arms lined with muscles around his neck._

_His head bowed as he leaned down into her, his mouth hovering above her ear. "Why did you run away, my little Dragonborn?"_

"_I wanted you to catch me," she murmured, her breath rustling his short midnight hair. _

_He hummed in response as his nose swept the length of her neck, breathing in her scent. "I wonder what it is you wanted me to do once I caught you?" _

_Her arms tightened around his neck and she shivered, his lips pressing tenderly to the sensitive spot beneath her ear. "Hold me. Kiss me. Love me." Her lips grazed his smooth cheek as she pulled back, her eyes stroking the depths of his - molten steel __surrounded by black war paint_. "I couldn't wait another second to have you."

"_You want me, do you?" he exhaled softly as his lips grazed the line of her jaw to her chin._

_Her head fell back, eyes fluttering shut. "Yes."_

_"Then you will have me." Faye gasped as he knelt and pushed her onto the ground. "Here. Now."_

_Her cornsilk hair was splayed out around her head like a halo of sunlight as his lean body slid up hers, every hard inch of him coming into contact with her until his face hovered above hers. His body settled against hers, his white-silver eyes burning bright and hot into hers as he pushed her hair back from her face, his eyes melting with hers, the color highlighted by the blackness surrounding them. _

"_I love you," he uttered raggedly - words he'd only ever said to her, only ever felt for her, would only ever feel for her. _

_Her smile glowed - no, she glowed - as she traced the line of his clean-shaven jaw with her fingertips, eyes glittering up at him like starlight. "Show me."_

"_Until the end of forever." His smile matched hers as his fingers slipped gently through the golden silk of her hair as he brought his mouth down to hers. "Croí daor…" __He breathed the two words meant only for her against her lips, and then into her skin, brushed them into her hair as he claimed her tendering, gently, lovingly on the grass beneath the orange tree. _

Eyes still closed, Vilkas came awake slowly, drifting up from the bottom of a dark abyss of perfect memories that refused to stop haunting him. He hated them. He fought tooth and nail to keep them from surfacing, but he always failed. He loathed them because they reminded him of the man he once was. But that man didn't exist anymore. No one who knew him before what she'd done to him would guess at his identity now. Everything about him had changed because of her. He refused to wear his customary war paint around his eyes anymore because he was no longer a man of honor, but rather a merciless predator and homicidal cutthroat. He wasn't Vilkas anymore. He was truly Wolf, because Wolf had made certain nothing of Vilkas existed.

The raven-haired Nord became aware of the smell of wood burning and meat roasting, and the sound of a log popping in the heat of a fire. The burning itch on his chest made his fingers twitch to scratch it, raising his level of awareness, the remnant of pain hanging on the fringes of his sleep. Slowly, becoming more awake, Vilkas' eyes fluttered open to stare up at a dark ceiling. He grimaced as water dripped onto his long black beard from the dank ceiling. The sound of dripping water echoed eerily around him. He tried to swallow and it hurt. His throat felt raw. His head was groggy. It was hard to think. His chest was itching unbearably. He dazedly looked around the small cave he found himself in. There were various stalactites and stalagmites about, as well as water dripping down from the sides of the cave.

At least he was warm and comfortable, he realized. And wearing only pants. Something soft was covering the bare skin of his chest and arms. He looked down to find himself wrapped in bear pelts, lying carefully bundled beside an open fire in the cave. With his body aching and his head ringing, the Commander of the Blades forced himself to sit up, wincing while he did so, the bandages wrapped around his bare chest pulling tightly as his muscles flexed with the movement.

There came a sound he could not place and his head instinctively turned toward the sound. His half-opened eyes blur-focused on a small child sitting before the fire on a stone. The child's back was to the mouth of the cave, the flames of the open fire dancing in front of the child. The child was leaned over, not looking at the fire, little legs crossed and bony elbows resting on those little knees. A short, messy mop of raven-black hair with dark crimson streaks was sticking out over the top of a large, leather-bound tome that was hiding the child's face from his view.

"You're finally awake," came a high-pitched and cheerful voice that could only belong to a small boy.

The book closed with a snap and fell into the young child's lap, revealing his face. The little boy couldn't be older than six or seven and he was smiling at him from across the fire. It was a warm smile, filled with guiltless sweetness and kindness, brightening his young face. The raven-black color of his hair contrasted sharply with the ivory paleness of his skin, the unruly strands falling across his little forehead and into his eyes. His eyes were large, almost too big for his face, and were a stunning shade of green. Vilkas was sure he'd never seen such wide-eyed innocence in a human being before.

"You've been sleeping _forever_," the little boy whined, his little knees bouncing with overflowing excitement, unable to wait another second for the mysterious Nord warrior to awaken.

"Where am I?" Vilkas croaked, his ruined voice more raw and raspy than usual.

"In a cave!" the boy provided, his smile never dimming.

Vilkas gave the boy a pointed look. "I gathered as much."

The boy's head tilted. "Your voice sounds funny. Did you hurt it?"

Vilkas ignored the question as he braced an arm behind him on the fur pallet, the muscles in his upper arm and bare chest bulging, black-gray eyes tightening with suspicion. "Who are you, boy?"

"I'm Drake!" The boy stated cheerfully, his little face lighting up in an endearing boyish way.

Vilkas grunted in acknowledgment, not really caring what the hell the boy called himself. "How did I come to be here?"

"You were hurt and sick," he chirped pleasantly. "Mommy made you better."

Vilkas' iron-colored eyes held curiosity as he inquired, "And who is your mother?"

"The bestest mommy in the entire world!" the boy replied with unbridled love and adoration in his eyes.

Vilkas grunted as he looked around the small cave, his long black hair brushing across his shoulder blades. "And where is she now?"

"She went to get more firewood," the boy said, pointing a little thumb at the mouth of the cave behind him.

"Hn," Vilkas muttered absentmindedly as he reached a hand up to scratch at his bandaged chest.

"Don't scratch it!" the boy scolded. "Mommy will be angry with you if you scratch it!"

Vilkas' eyebrows drew together into a scowl as he grumbled an oath under his breath, not liking being told what to do by some child that was still a pup with his youthful face, boney elbows, and scrapped knees.

Curious despite himself, Vilkas lifted his gaze under his slashing eyebrows and studied the child sitting across the fire from him. He was a tall child with a slim, lanky figure and wore a crimson tunic, brown pants and small winter boots. Despite his light apparel, the boy didn't seem to be affected by the cold coming in from the mouth of the cave. His eyes ran critically over the child. He was also large for his age, and his bearing lent him stature.

_He must be a Nord_, Vilkas decided, recognizing his countrymen's natural resistance to frost in the boy. _At least half Nord_.

Vilkas' eyes scanned the cave a couple of times before coming to land on the massive dog that was sitting protectively in front of the boy. The dog was of great size and commanding appearance, a Nordic Wolfhound with a rough-coat that was grey in color.

"Who is that?" Vilkas asked with a nod of his head to the Wolfhound.

The boy looked down at the dog sitting in front of him that was three times his size and smiled fondly. The dog was his playmate, constant companion, and only friend. Well, besides his mommy.

"This is Meeko," Drake murmured as he stroked the giant warhound's fur lovingly. "He's my friend."

Vilkas raised a dark eyebrow. "He is very… _big_."

The boy giggled at the Nord warrior's wary statement and rubbed Meeko behind his ear causing the warhound to bark happily. "Mommy got him to protect me."

Vilkas' eyebrows drew together. "Why do you need protection?"

The little fledgling continued to rub the dog's fur, but his bright smile had slipped from his cheerful face, a somber emotion flooding his expressive features.

Vilkas' gaze turned questioning, but before he could question the boy on it the kid blurted out, "You thirsty?"

The boy stood swiftly and rushed over to a pail of water resting on the floor beside the fire. "Mommy left you some clothes to wear," the boy said without looking up from his task of filling a cup of water.

Vilkas' looked down to find the neatly folded pile lying in front of him. He lifted the black tunic and pulled it over his head before adjusting his loose black pants beneath the bear pelts.

"Here," the boy said before shoving the cup in Vilkas' face. Vilkas took the cup in his hand with a grunt of thanks.

The boy settled back on his stone before the fire, eyes never leaving Vilkas as he folded his legs to sit cross-legged. Vilkas lifted the cup in his hand and drank slowly, the water soothing and wonderful to his dry, parched mouth and throat.

"You don't talk much," the boy said after a long pause.

Vilkas' answer was stoic silence.

"What's your name?"

Vilkas said nothing, continuing to stare blankly into the fire as he finished off the water in his cup.

"Come on… tell me. Pleaseee…" the boy whined with an endearing pout and a bat of his eyelashes that Vilkas assumed the boy used more than once to get what he wanted.

Vilkas remained stoically silent, totally unaffected, watching the flames lick at the wood.

"Pleaseeeee…" the boy tried again, making his large emerald eyes widen even further into large innocent saucers.

Vilkas' jaw clenched, a muscle twitching in his cheek beneath his beard as he fought to ignore the boy's pleading across from him.

Drake's charming demeanor faded slightly and his little black eyebrows pulled together. "Please, mister. All I want to know is your name. Please. Please." The boy sucked in a sharp breath before shrieking. "PLEASEEEEE!"

"By the Nine, will you shut it!" Vilkas bellowed, his voice bouncing off the walls of the cave.

The child's green eyes fell slightly, his expression turning doleful as his little fingers played with the hem of his tunic. "I just wanted to know your name," he said in a little voice.

Vilkas looked to the dank ceiling as if searching for patience, his jaw tight. "It is only a name. Why do you care, boy?"

Drake's head tilted slightly. "Because we can't be friends until I know your name," he answered simply.

Vilkas snorted with derision. "And who says I want to be friends with you? You're a very annoying little whelp."

"I think we're going to be best friends!" The boy chirped pleasantly, his merriment and enthusiasm not diminished in the slightest.

Dark grey orbs fell to gaze sharply at the child sitting across the fire from him. "I will _not_ be friends with a child. Especially one like you."

Bright green orbs turned questioning. "Why not?"

Vilkas groaned in irritation and rubbed his brow. "I tire of this. Leave me be."

The child sputtered. "But… but you have to tell me your name. Mommy says-"

Vilkas lifted his gaze under his slashing eyebrows and snapped, "If your mother was a fit parent she would had told you not to talk to strangers."

The boy snickered, the half smile on his face winning, displaying a playful nature. "But you're no stranger, mister. You've been here a super long time."

Vilkas' brows drew together as he pondered that. "How long have I been in this cave?"

The child's eyes rolled. "Foreeevvverrr."

"That's very helpful. Thank you for your input," Vilkas deadpanned.

Silence stretched between them, the only sound being the popping of the log in the open fire.

"Hey, are you hungry, Mr. Whiskers? Mommy made mommy soup. It's the bestest soup in the whole wide world!"

Vilkas gaze lifted sharply, a sharp glare on his face. "What did you just call me?"

"Mr. Whiskers!" The child squealed with delight, those brilliant green eyes widening and brightening with unbridled glee. "Because you have that big bushy beard!" His little finger pointed at his face with a radiant smile. "It looks like a squirrel hugging your face!"

A muscle in Vilkas' jaw ticked as he tried to master his temper. "My name…" he ground out. "…is _not_… Mr. Whiskers." His scowl turned fierce. "You got that, whelp?"

While most would start in fear at the look on Vilkas' face, the boy across from him merely exploded in a gurgle of laughter. "Well, what am I supposed to call you if I don't know your name?"

_Smart ass_, Vilkas thought, his scowl deepening.

"Come one, just tell me," the boy whined. "Pleas-"

"Wolf." That one word lingered in the silence of the cave that followed it. "My name is Wolf."

Silence stretched between them.

"I like that name," the boy said after a long pause with a resolute nod.

Wolf studied the little boy as he bent forward and petted his dog, his short raven-black hair hanging into his bright green eyes as he smiled lovingly down at his dog.

Wolf didn't like kids. No, he disliked the vulnerability of kids, the ease with which they could be hurt, lost, kidnapped, broken. He'd only met his three nieces once and it had been a very awkward experience that he wasn't eager to experience again.

He hated the thought of ever having his own.

Truth was, he didn't like people. Not anymore. He wasn't fit to be around them. He was so full of hate and bitterness. His hands were stained with blood and violence while a cold blackness surrounded his soul. Hell, giants were more suitable for social settings than he was. No one was less equipped than he was to-

"What does croí daor mean?"

The air gushed from Wolf's chest as if a boulder had been placed there. His posture changed instantly, as if the child's words jolted him like a bolt of lightning. His expression froze, a tight suffocating ache centering itself in his throat as those two words echoed in the chilling silence of the cave.

"You said croí daor just a few minutes ago while you were sleeping," Drake continued with a tilt of his head, eying Wolf curiously. "Is it ancient Nordic?"

Wolf's answer was taut silence, a dark veil falling across his face that was now harsh with strain. His eyes filled with a great sorrow that spoke of past pain that still lingered. He clenched his hands into fists. The Dragonborn's name rang like a litany inside his head, and with it brought a terrible feeling of emptiness and a familiar need for vengeance - a need to return the pain she had wrought a hundredfold.

"You're sad… or angry?" came a softly spoken voice no louder than a whisper. "Why?"

Wolf quickly schooled his expression to unreadable, realizing only then that he had inadvertently let his emotions show on his face, something he rarely did. He looked up to find those green eyes focused entirely on him, sharp and assessing, with a keen intelligence that seemed greater than the child's few years.

Suddenly Wolf was unable to breathe in the small confines of the cave. The awkwardness and unease he was feeling was smothering, suffocating. His skin was crawling. He had to get out of there.

"I should be leaving," Wolf grumbled harshly, abruptly, his ruined voice scraping.

His small face pinched with disappointment. "You could stay," Drake stated with a hopeful smile. "Mommy said you wouldn't be better for a few more days."

Wolf smothered a leap of impatience, unable to stand another second in this confined space with this child. "I must return to the Blades Fortress. My team will be anxious to see me." That was an understatement. The last time he went missing like this he was captured and tortured by the Dragon Cult for six months. Aela must be going crazy right now looking for him.

The boy looked at him and spoke urgently, "But mommy said a storm is coming. A really bad one."

Wolf scoffed. "I am a Nord. I am not afraid of the cold."

"I'm a Nord too!" The boy cried out, excited to have something in common with the powerful Blade warrior he was starting to admire.

Wolf raised a questioning eyebrow. "Your parents are Nords?"

"Well, my da is a Nord," the boy explained warily, his eyes shifting nervously from side to side as if he was uncomfortable with the subject. "But my mommy is a… umm… a…" the boy trailed off, searching for the right word.

"A what?"

The boy's eyebrows squished together. "Ugh… an Imperical."

"You mean an _Imperial_?"

"Yeah, that's it!"

"Good for you," Wolf uttered dryly. Grimacing from the pain in his chest, Wolf pushed to his feet.

The boy's eyes became as large as saucers, his disbelief apparent. "Wait… you're leaving?! But… but you can't leave yet!"

"And why not?"

"Because… because there's going to be a blizzard and you're still hurt," Drake uttered quickly, bestowing on him his youthful wisdom.

Wolf's gaze flickered to the mouth of the cave where snow was falling just outside of it. He frowned. He was still injured and the trip was long. He felt weak, thirsty, and hungry. Despite being a Nord, he didn't think it would be wise to travel in the foul weather that was brewing outside. But, Talos help him, he really didn't want to be here. He wanted to run and get far away from here. He wanted to return to his life as Commander of the Blades that was ruled by violence, blood, and death. Bitterness and pain. Loneliness and regret.

Sweet Mara, he needed a drink. And a woman. He had started using alcohol and warm female flesh to relax and take the edge off, and he sure was balanced on one hell of an edge right now.

Wolf's gaze returned warily to the boy sitting in the cave, staring at him with overwhelming interest and admiration shimmering in his large jade eyes.

Talos, he needed some air.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was midnight in Dawnstar.

It was a dark night, deep and frigid, with only a few fading stars and a full moon to cast any light. The rain was cold and smelled of winter as it fell unremittingly from the endless blackness above. A freezing wind blew from the north, a gust of flurry and ice.

The last Dragonborn trekked through the snow, huddled beneath her black winter cloak, checking the traps she'd laid around the cave for protection. Beneath her cloak she wore light armor that was skintight and made of red and black leather. It was Dark Brotherhood armor that she'd taken off of an assassin woman who'd tried to kill her six years ago. It was the first time Faye had given into temptation and stayed in a tavern for a warm meal and a good nights rest on a real bed. She'd removed her mask and took her hood off for bed. She learned that day never to make that mistake again for it was exactly what the assassin had been waiting for. Once her identity had been confirmed, the assassin had attacked.

Faye liked the Dark Brotherhood shroud armor and she wore it whenever she was around people because it had an attached black cowl that covered her hair and mask that covered her face. When she wore the armor, the only thing visible was her eyes. It was the only way she didn't have to worry about being seen and recognized.

The wind howled wildly causing the leafless trees to rustle violently and snow to rise from the ground, forming small whirlwinds that danced along the open expanse of whiteness that covered the ground.

_A storm is coming_, the Breton mused as she watched the frozen rain swirl and spiral violently to the ground around her. She needed to get back to the cave and indoors fast before she got caught in the blizzard that seemed ready to hit at anytime.

She also needed to get back to her son.

And her patient.

It was just her luck that the man she'd saved was a Blade.

A Blade!

Oh, the gods certainly had it out for her, Faye was certain now, she reflected with dismay. It only served to increase her growing feeling of panic and apprehension. She couldn't be spending time with a Blade. It could ruin everything. She needed to finish healing him and get rid of him as quickly as possible.

She must've been mad to decide to bring the Nord warrior back to the cave she and Drake were hiding out in and nurse him back to health. She'd seen his armor, she'd known what he was, and yet she couldn't just leave him there to die in the snow. Curse her heart! It was going to get her into serious trouble one day.

But that was just the half of it.

Of all the Blade warriors she had to save it _had_ to be the Wolf of the Blades!

Wolf.

Faye had heard his name whispered with dread, heard tales. The Wolf of the Blades was the subject of fearsome tales and scandalous rumors. His exploits in battle were legendary and his reputation fierce. He was a vicious and ruthless man who coldly decided who continued to breathe and who was buried six feet under. And his name was Death. And the fires of Oblivion followed after him. But until the moment she saw him fight on that snowy battlefield and saw that he carried the sign of the wolf on his Blades armor she hadn't believed he existed. She would never forget her first sight of him five days before as he fought all of those dragon cultists singlehandedly. The Wolf had been a forbidding figure, brutal and merciless while wielding his sword with such proficiency and skill that he looked like a god of war. She now understood why grown men trembled in fear of him.

The Wolf was the Commander of the Blades and an infamous predator, a remorseless killer, and one of the most feared creatures in all of Skyrim. He was the reason people feared the Blades. They feared they were growing too powerful and that nothing would be able to keep the Wolf and his Blade marauders at bay, leaving them free to take the Snow Tower for themselves while it lied sundered and kingless. It was also no secret that the Blades were working with a dragon, Alduin's brother no less, which struck fear in the hearts of the people of Skyrim. They feared Paarthurnax was the one who had absorbed Alduin's soul and the Blades were doing his biding while he returned to his full strength.

All Faye knew was that it was her duty and responsibility as the last Dragonborn to deal with Alduin. She would find a way to get rid of him once and for all. She couldn't trust Paarthurnax. She couldn't trust the Blades. She couldn't trust anyone. This task was hers and hers alone. And she would finish it. Alone. She was a formidable force, protecting her son from so many terrible things she hoped Drake would never have to witness, and, oh she loved her son more than life itself.

Faye had only been eighteen-years-old when she'd left Vilkas six years ago - eighteen, pregnant, an orphan, and alone. She'd been so depressed, heartbroken, missing Vilkas with an ache that was marrow deep. Her heart had been dying, and she had been living half alive.

She'd learned quickly how hard life could be in Skyrim when you were a young woman, pregnant, single, and penniless. She'd soon discovered that the citizens of Skyrim were more conservative than she'd originally given them credit. She found the assistance of the countrymen for the barest of necessities difficult when you were an unmarried young woman who had gotten herself pregnant, especially when you were of a different race.

No one would help her or offer her work or shelter. In order to survive, she'd married her childhood friend, Brynjolf. Her marriage to the Guild Master of the Thieves Guild had given her the respectability to endure. It also acted to hide the identity of the father of her child since Drake was born eight months after her marriage and everyone assumed Drake was Brynjolf's. Her marriage had also given her son a strong Nord last name, as well as allow her to change her own last name, eliminating Faye Ashhart for good. But each day had been a fight for survival. Terror and uncertainty had hounded her during the days and nights of her pregnancy. Each day had been filled with fear, confusion, and heartache. She'd been so young and alone and so… lost.

But she'd never cried. Not once.

Faye remembered her own pain and the midwife's hushed tones the night she'd given birth to Drake. Even when she'd almost died in childbirth, she'd suffered the pain with a white-lipped, white-knuckled silence that so frightened the midwife that she had threatened to leave the birth chamber.

But then everything had changed.

Five winters ago, now almost six, she'd taken her son into her arms while he wailed, and in that moment she was made whole. Her little boy had brought with him a sense of purpose and fulfillment into her life. He put the light back in her eyes, and instilled a love so deep it touched her soul.

Drake was such a strong willed little boy with a kind heart. He had his father's intelligence and raven-black hair, and her green eyes and stubbornness. He was the cutest little kid with the sweetest disposition. Sweet Stendarr's Mercy, there was no question about it, Drake was going to be a heartbreaker when he grew up, just like his father.

The Dragonborn's heart swelled just thinking of Drake. She loved him so much. Her sweet little sparrow. Her reason for everything. She made every sacrifice a mother could for her child, though she wished she could give him more, better. They did everything together, enjoying each other, and laughing almost all the time. She never once regretted her decision to keep him, to keep him safe, to have him. Never. And she'd never let anything or anymore take him from her. If it took her last breath, she would not fail her son.

Faye gritted her teeth against another icy blast, shivering beneath her winter cloak. Her face lifted to watch the thin clouds cut across the face of the moon.

Even after all of these years, Vilkas had never been far from her thoughts. Nor the lonely pain of missing him. So many times she questioned her decision to leave him until she'd thought she'd go mad. But she couldn't change the past, couldn't change her decision. She didn't want to anyway. She wouldn't take back the choice she made to keep her baby, but it was hard to say there was nothing she regretted. Given the choice, she would have done the same thing again in spite of all it had cost her.

Yes, she got lonely. She was human after all, despite what people thought of her. But when she did she wrapped her memories of her time with Vilkas around her like a warm, comforting blanket until the chill of loneliness eased. But when she thought of Vilkas living in Whiterun with his beautiful Nord wife and his three children, it wasn't the loneliness that hurt the most. It was the feeling of being forgotten by someone she couldn't forget.

Powerful snow flurries whipped harshly through the air against her. Her ebony cloak shone slick with the damp. Her slender hand lifted in front of her, snowy flakes landing on the palm of her gloved hand. The movement had caused the sleeve of her black cloak to pull back to reveal a black tattoo.

_Sky above me, earth below me, fire within me_.

The Dragonborn had those very words tattooed in dragon language on her wrist, a reminder of who she was, that everything she needed she had with her. Her open palm closed tight around the snowflakes she'd caught, her hand dropping heavy back to her side.

With the moon shining in the cloudless night sky above her as her only source of light, Faye prodded warily across the shifting, icy landscape, checking her traps and searching for enemies. The young Breton woman carefully threaded her way through a thicket, avoiding the numerous rocks and hidden roots beneath the snow that threatened to trip her.

Suddenly, footsteps like claps of thunder came at her from her side. The Dragonborn stood her ground and turned to face the oncoming frost troll. The smell of burnt rotten eggs was overcame her. Faye braced herself against the horrible, familiar smell. The white-furred troll came around the bend and came to a lumbering stop. Compared to the petite Breton woman, the troll was massive in stature. Thick drool dripped from the troll's mouth as Faye unsheathed her blade.

Moments later and Faye was breathing deeply as she wiped the troll's blood off of her short-sword before sheathing it at her hip, puffs of white mist blooming in front of her masked face every time she exhaled.

_That took too long_, she berated herself. _Dammit. I've grown soft_.

When she'd faced Alduin all those years ago she'd been eighteen with a girl's body and as physically fit as one could get. But after having Drake and reaching her body's full maturity, she now had a womanly figure with feminine curves, wide hips, and full breasts that had ever been there before. From being hidden beneath cloaks, hoods, and masks her skin had turned from a sun-kissed tan to a pale ivory. Her voice had deepened and she had even grown a few inches, stretching from a tiny four-foot-ten inches to five-feet and three.

But such change in figure and growth was typical for a Breton woman after giving birth. To be honest, she hardly recognized the girl in the portraits of the Dragonborn she occasionally saw scattered around Skyrim. That girl looked nothing like the woman she was today, especially with the thin white scar that ran from the outside tip of her right eyebrow to her chin. That scar was one of many, and just another reminder that so much had changed in the six, almost seven, years she'd been living on the run after leaving her life behind, leaving Vilkas behind.

Faye's heart twisted as it always did when she thought of Vilkas, when she thought of his white-silver eyes surrounded by black war paint, his warm laugh, his bright smile, and slim, lean body. She hated how she was slowly starting to forget him, wishing not for the first time that she had a portrait of him. She also hated the fact that he would never know about Drake, which only added to the ache of guilt within her that had been her constant companion all these years. But unlike Vilkas, Faye had not seen the conception of a child as a burden but as a blessing. How many times did Vilkas say that he didn't want children? That he didn't like kids. How many times had his lip curled at the sight of a toddler running rampant in the streets of Whiterun while he pointed out to her that was exactly why they were better off without any rugrats. A thousand memories washed over her like waves of broken glass, each one stinging and leaving behind a wound.

But most of all she remembered the unforgettable words he'd spoken to her the day they'd faced Alduin together. Those words had been what made her run, and continued to keep her running. Because of those words, Vilkas would never know about Drake. _Never_. If he ever found out about the baby she'd kept from him, it might cost her the son she loved with every molecule of her being.

With the full moon shinning against the midnight sky, casting a silver aura on the whiteness blanketing the earth and trees, the Dragonborn continued on her way and checked the last of her traps. Afterwards, she did a second check of the perimeter, her clover-colored eyes searching the frost-covered forest around her for enemies.

Deciding that the area was secured, she started to head back to the warmth of the cave that contained the most precious person in her life, as well as the mysterious Blade that she had to get rid of as soon as possible. Snow illuminated white on the ground in front of her as she treaded softly through the snow, lost in her own thoughts, almost to the mouth of the cave.

A snapping of twigs alerted Faye that she wasn't alone. Panic pricked up her spine as she searched the dark forest around her, moonlight creeping in through the branches overhead.

Nothing… no movement at all. There was no sign of any enemies, no dangers lurking in the dark. Nothing moved around her except the moon-drenched canopy of pines above her head.

_It must have been a small animal_, she thought.

Another snap, right behind her. This time it sounded too close and too loud to be a small animal.

The Breton's body tensed as she strained her ears. There wasn't a sound for what felt like an eternity.

There was a faint rustle of clothes behind her.

Taking a steady breath, she gripped the hilt of her short-sword at her hip and spun around. Faye suppressed a gasp when her eyes landed on a tall, dark figure. With her heart beating wildly, she stared transfixed at the motionless form that stood only a few feet away from her, shrouded in a blanket of darkness. The figure took a step toward her, stepping into the moonlight, and Faye's eyes widened.

It was _him_.

Wolf.

Her eyes scanned him, surprised he was even standing. Tough bastard, she admitted with reluctant admiration. He'd been ambushed by over a hundred dragon cultists, had fought them singlehandedly, had been poisoned, had almost died only five days ago, and now he was standing in only loose black pants and a black tunic in an approaching blizzard as if it was nothing.

Even across the distance that separated them, Faye could feel his towering, masculine presence. He was a daunting figure - a massive, muscle-bound, mountain of a man with a body made up entirely of tightly corded muscle and dormant strength. Gods, he was bigger than Farkas, which was saying something.

His hair was thick and pitch-black, untamed, hanging well past his broad shoulders and stopping at his shoulder blades. A long thick beard covered most of his face, but from what she could see, his hard features were sharply chiseled and ruggedly handsome.

He reminded her of a young Kodlak.

Wolf's dark, stormcloud gray eyes held the intensity of an apex predator as they tracked every movement she made, every draw of breath. With that relentless eye contact, he held her pinioned where she stood. For what seemed like a lifetime he stared at her, not moving, not speaking, the only sound being their breathing and the whip of the winter wind around them.

Faye was ridged as a board as she took a step backward, every natural instinct within her screaming warnings and alarms. A dark aura of danger, menace, and power surrounded him that stemmed from more than simply his imposing height and formidable bearing. Even though she'd never actually spoken to him before since he'd been in a feverish and unconscious state for the past five days, she recognized danger when it stood right in front of her. One glimpse would tell any thinking person that this was a man who would kill and maim, and probably enjoy every moment of it.

The wind howled and picked up slightly, swirling flurries of snow around them, causing her black cloak to whip around her body._ At least he can't see my face_, Faye thought, thankful she was wearing the Dark Brotherhood shroud armor, the hood covering her hair and the mask covering her face.

A dagger suddenly appeared in Wolf's hand and a frisson of fear ran down her spine as the obscure, ominous figure moved toward her so fast he was a mere blur.

_What in Oblivion is he doing?!_ Faye screamed mentally as she ripped her short-sword free of its sheath as the Nord warrior lunged at her, striking like a panther. There was a clang of steel - metal hitting metal - as she blocked his dagger with her blade. _Is he bloody insane?!_

Wolf's unequalled strength quickly overpowered her own and Faye's booted foot struck his shin. He grunted and she shoved his dagger away with her own, spinning away. He came at her again and she moved fluidly, her movements graceful like those of a dancer, her sword constantly swinging in controlled arcs. Her hands tingled with the constant vibrations from the power behind his swings. He had strength, but she had speed. She moved so fast, ducking, weaving and diving around and under the flashing blade in his hand.

Faye had no idea why Wolf was attacking her, especially after she'd saved his life. Perhaps he was delirious. She didn't want to hurt him if he was still feverish and hallucinating. She also couldn't unleash a Shout as that would give away her identity. It would appear she would just have to knock him out and get him back to the cave and heal him again. It shouldn't be too hard, she figured, since he was still injured.

Faye's sword blurred, snaking out, but Wolf's dagger crashed into hers, the impact knocking her back. Faye stepped back to regain her balance. The Blade smashed his sword down at her from above, and she parried his blow firmly. Their blades separated, the massive Nord slashed at her throat, she ducked out of the way. She pivoted on her foot and slammed her elbow into his face. He cursed violently as his hand went to his eye where her elbow had hit him. She lunged with her short-sword and he turned, catching her wrist with his hand. He twisted, hard, her shoulder throbbed. He slashed his sword at her extended arm in his hand. She smashed the hilt of her blade onto his forehead before his dagger made impact. He fell backwards, regained his composure.

The Nord charged her, his massive bulk and strength overpowering her, but he was not as agile as she was and she held the superior weapon. Darting around him, Faye forced him to continually change direction. He persisted. They exchanged a number of attempted blows. Their blades clanged. The Dragonborn swung her sword down at him, he parried. Lightning-fast, his large hand clamped around her throat like a band of steel. Faye's breath caught as her feet lifted off the ground as she was shoved backwards, her back slamming painfully into a tree trunk. She winced as the bark bit painfully into her back through her light armor and cloak. The hand around her armored throat tightened and lifted her up another foot on the tree, her feet dangling. Her head shot up and her eyes clashed with his.

They remained silent and unmoving as the snow continued to fall from the black sky above them. For a score of heartbeats, Faye stared up at him. In the unnatural calm following the violence, she studied the harsh-visaged Nord warrior who loomed threateningly over her, his towering height dwarfing her. He was more intimidating up close, the sense of hardness, of danger about him, overwhelming.

Overlong, untamed raven hair framed his face. His wild, black beard obscured much of it, but from what she could see, his face was hard and remote, with a ruthless mouth that exhaled white mist into her face. Those flint-gray eyes were as piercing as a feral wolf's as they surveyed her intently beneath sharp black brows. Suspicion and distrust filled their icy granite depths, as well as the promise of death that lingered like a haze of smoke deep within them.

"You know who I am?" His voice was rough and gravelly, as if each word came out scrapping across broken glass and sandpaper. No normal voice sounded like that.

Breathing was like inhaling ice, and her throat was dry and brittle, his hand still clamped securely around it like an iron manacle. Faye exhaled into the black cloth covering her face and answered honestly, "Yes."

_His coldest feature is his eyes_, Faye decided as she stared into them. It was like he was trying to freeze her soul or hypnotize her under his control. They were creepy and she got chills from staring into them.

"Who am I?" His voice was low, commanding, compelling her to answer him.

"The Wolf of the Blades," she answered simply. She lifted her chin as she stared him down, her forest-green eyes glistening in the moonlight beneath her cowl. "Your reputation is legendary."

He slanted one dark brow in a wry manner in answer.

"I've heard fearsome things said of you," she continued. "Tales over the years. Tales of the Wolf's prowess in combat." Her lowered voice carried to him on a gentle gust of wind. "They say he is ruthless, cruel, and unimaginably powerful, his name alone able to strike fear into grown men. They say he kills everything that gets in his way without mercy. He is compared to a demon more than a man."

His lip curled back in a savage snarl. He looked wild, feral even, and dangerous with his teeth bared at her, raven-black hair hanging around his face like a curtain, and sharp black eyebrows pulled low and tight over dark-fringed, storm gray eyes that were so brutal in their intensity that she felt them boring into the back of her skull.

"Do I look like a demon?" His deep, grating voice sounded as if it had been dragged up from the depths of Oblivion.

"Yes," Faye replied quietly, a frisson of dread dancing down her spine.

"Do you fear me?" Wolf asked quietly, as if reading her thoughts, his hardness and intensity unsettling.

"No," she answered in truth, though she could taste apprehension in her mouth.

Wolf applied pressure with his thumb and fingertips, allowing her to feel the leashed strength in his powerful hand that almost completely circled her throat.

"You should be." The words were a mere rumbling growl escaping the back of his throat, raw and primitive, threatening.

A wisp of cloud drifted across the paleness of the moon, casting ghostly shadows on the mysterious woman who's eyes rounded as they stared up at him, the only part of her visible to him. In the frigid silence, he could hear her heaving lungs as they filled with air, her enormous eyes remaining focused on him.

Cocking his head, Wolf felt the pulse in her throat beat a frenzied rhythm beneath his fingertips, even through the armor covering her throat. He could snap her delicate little neck right now like that of a baby birds, yet she remained surprisingly calm. There was no fear in her eyes, not even a flicker of it. Grown men quivered in fear at the sound of his name, but this small woman did nothing of the sort. Her head was held high, eyes meeting his in defiance. Wolf wavered somewhere between outrage, disbelief, and admiration.

She might not look like much, but she had skill and courage, and something else he couldn't name, something that glittered like a warning in the back of her eyes. It was as if she had an ace up her sleeve but didn't want to use it unless she absolutely had to. A pulse of power flowed from her, and Wolf wasn't sure he wanted to find out what power that was, what exactly it was she was holding back.

The wind blew, causing flurries of snow to whip around them. Long onyx strands of hair brushed against her cowl and mask.

Her eyes caught his and then let them go.

They were the perfect shade of green.

Wolf's free hand reached up between their almost touching bodies, his long fingers reaching for the top of her mask to pull it down and reveal to him this mystery woman's face.

Those green eyes narrowed fiercely beneath her cowl. "I wouldn't do that were I you."

Wolf's fingers paused, a hairsbreadth away from her mask as he felt something hard and unforgiving pressing into the sensitive spot between his ribs. He looked down to find her short-sword in her hand, the blade pressing into his torso, promising death should he try to remove her mask again.

"And kindly remove your hand from my throat," she stated evenly. "I don't appreciate being manhandled."

Wolf's hand fell away from her mask, but his other hand remained around her throat. Silence engulfed them as he regarded her for several heartbeats, assessing her. "Where did you learn to fight like that?"

White mist bloomed in front of her mask in the wintry night air. "Where did you?"

His jaw came up, his mouth tightly compressed. "Don't trifle with me, woman. It'll just piss me off." His fingers tightened slightly on her throat. "And you won't like me when I'm pissed off."

Faye felt a flash of anger, which she quickly tamped down. "I don't very much like you now, seeing as how you've got your hand around my throat." Her chin came up, eyes flashing. "Would you kindly remove it?"

His gaze became narrowed and measuring. "And why should I? I don't know you. For all I know, your just another assassin sent here to finish me off."

For a moment she could only stare at him in stunned silence. "I'm no assassin."

He gave her another frowning glance, this one rifle with skepticism as his gaze fell purposefully to her Dark Brotherhood armor. "You look like one. You fight like one."

"I found this armor on a dead woman in a tavern," she explained, leaving out the part where she slit the woman's throat.

"And why should I believe a word you say?"

She stared at him in disbelief. "You've been in my care for five days now. A few hours ago you were dreaming on my fur pallet, my son's dog licking your face." Her lips curved beneath her mask. "If I wanted to kill you, Blade, I would have done it already."

His searching gaze was intense and distrustful. "I don't believe you."

She scoffed. "Are you always this gracious with the people who save your life?"

The Nord threw her an incredulous glance. "I don't remember you saving my life. The last thing I remember was the fight."

"But it's the truth!" she cried incredulously. "You would be killing the woman that saved your life!"

His lips twisted in a sneer. "No, I would be killing the assassin sent here to kill me."

The Breton's mouth pinched beneath her mask. "You're very senseless for a Nord."

"And you're very small," he shot back.

"I'm an Imperial. We tend to me shorter than your countrymen," she lied, another measure to protect her identity.

A faint smile curved his mouth that was as unexpected as it was disturbing. "Do you really think this banter will save your life?"

A cloud drifted across the moon, shadowing his face. It made her feel uneasy. After a long pregnant pause, her throat worked and her voice came out softer than she liked. "Are you really going to kill me?"

He seemed to hesitate before casting her a brief, enigmatic glance. "I don't know yet."

Her eyes held his, flickering between them. "You're only alive because I refused to let you die."

"And what were your motives behind such an act of generosity?" The Blade cast his eyes upon her as if to judge her worth.

In the distance a coyote howled, the sound drifting to Faye on the winter breeze that smelled of ice. "You're very distrustful," she stated evenly.

His narrowed, slate-gray gaze held her immobile. "I have no reason to trust you, woman, even if you did save my life."

She forced herself to meet his gaze that was filled with shadows. "I did it because…"

"Because?" He prodded when her voice faded out.

Though he couldn't see it, under the cowl that covered her face, a sad smile curved on the Dragonborn's lips as she thought of Kodlak. "Because you remind me of someone. A man who was like a father to me."

Wolf gave her an unreadable glance and said nothing. Her mouth became so dry she couldn't swallow as he just kept staring at her, unblinking, trapping her in the quiet intensity of those impenetrable gray-black eyes.

"I won't kill you," he stated finally after a very long pause. "For now," he added harshly.

Wolf released her throat, letting her drop to her feet in front of the tree. Faye sheathed her blade and rubbed her throat.

The Blade continued to stare at her. He was frowning, as if puzzled. His brow became creased with deep lines, his mouth pulling tight. His narrowed eyes shifted subtly back and forth between hers. "Who are you?"

Faye remained silent, a breathless fear causing her throat to tighten and her palms to sweat. This was her fear when she'd decided to save his life. That he would start asking questions.

"Who are you?" There was a hard edge to his tone.

Her voice went reed thin. "Nobody."

Wolf's eyes reflected the still iciness of the snow-bound winter night outside the cave. "Tell me your name."

Faye bit the inside of her cheek, her mind racing for something to say, her mask smothering her.

"Tell me your name," His tone was somewhere between cold and frigid, just like his eyes.

Faye tore her eyes from his, unable to stand their strange and unnerving intensity and coldness. "I don't see any reason for us knowing each other's names."

"Tell me." he commanded in an indomitable tone. His bearded face was fierce with irritation, utterly uncompromising. "I will not ask again."

"Fianna," she whispered, the quiet sound getting swept up in the whirl of snow that rushed past them. It was her mother's name, the name she'd been using for the past six years.

"Fianna." Wolf said her name slowly, as if testing it on his tongue, and the roughly graveled syllables caused a chilling tingle to trickle down her back.

After what seemed an interminably long while, his hard expression shifted as he studied her speculatively. A curious gleam entered his eyes that made her uneasy. His eyes fell, searching the cowl covering her face, as if trying to see beneath it. His eyes then flicked up to hers and stared, probing, searching for… something.

"Do I know you?" His voice sounded strangely constrained, almost taut.

Fianna searched his eyes for some trace of familiarity or humanity and found neither. They were filled with nothing at all. She didn't know this man, if he could even be called that.

"I think not." She forced herself to swallow the dry lump lodged in her throat. "I would remember meeting a demon like you."

Some dark emotion flitted across his face before he hid it behind a veil of ice, his scowl deepening. Wolf stepped back from Fianna, looking away from her. He did not seem interested in prolonging their discussion. "I must return to my responsibilities with the Blades."

Her arms folded, eyebrow raised. "You won't get far."

His eyes met hers. "Meaning?"

"A blizzard is coming and your still injured. You'll bleed out before you reach the bottom of the mountain." Fianna shrugged, indifferent. "It matters not to me what you do. If you die, my conscience will at least be clear this time."

Despite her words, Fianna's teeth gritted against her rebellious conscience that refused to let the stubborn Nord trail off down the mountain and get himself killed after the five days she slaved over him, bringing him back from the brink of death.

Cursing her soft heart for the second time this week, Fianna forced the words out, "You can wait out the storm with us." Her invitation was grudging. She didn't want this man anywhere near her or her son.

With a thoroughly disgruntled expression playing upon his face, Wolf walked to the edge of the cliff and stared thoughtfully down the mountain at the city of Dawnstar. A cold wind blew through the trees, rustling his long beard and thick raven-black locks that hung past his shoulders.

"It would appear that I am stuck here," Wolf muttered bleakly. Those piercing black-gray eyes slanted to her. "At least until the storm passes."

"Wonderful," Fianna muttered dryly, unable to shake the feeling that she would come to regret this.

**Author's Note**: "Croí daor" has a very special place in my heart. It's what my husband calls me. He's Irish. You can look up the meaning, but I beg you to wait and keep reading. I will reveal the meaning and I think it will be more meaningful to learn it from this story than from a translator. In this story I will say the words are ancient Nordic, but they are actually Irish. Also, this chapter has a soundtrack: _Collide _by Howie Day. You can hear the whole song for free on YouTube.


	4. Chapter 4 - The Cave

**The Boy With The Crimson Eyes**

**Chapter 4 – The Cave**

_There's nothing that I'd take back_

_But it's hard to say there's nothing I regret_

_'Cause when I sing, you shout_

_I breathe out loud_

_You bleed, we crawl like animals_

_But when it's over, I'm still awake_

_A thousand silhouettes dancing on my chest_

_No matter where I sleep, you are haunting me_

_- Silhouettes by Of Monsters And Men_

Fianna could feel Wolf follow her into the cave, and his close proximity was rubbing her nerves raw. She could tell he was displeased to be here with them. Well, he wasn't the only one.

"Sparrow?" she murmured the nickname softly, trying to ignore the powerful, commanding figure behind her. "Mommy's home."

No response came.

Fianna's eyes searched the lowly lit cave until they fell on her five-year-old son who was sleeping peacefully on their shared fur pallet in the back corner of the cave. One small arm was outflung and the other clasped around Meeko's neck. The light from the dying fire shone on his mop of raven-black hair, bringing out the crimson highlights. His long eyelashes casted curving shadows across his soft ivory cheeks.

Fianna stood for a long time looking at him, her hands clasped to her heart. She loved him so much. Gods, she'd never loved anything more.

Her heart warmed as she watched her baby snuggle into Meeko's fur. She'd never had a pet before. She was never allowed to have one at the orphanage in Riften. She'd always wanted her own dog. Dogs didn't judge you. They loved you eternally. They were loyal. They were a friend. They were family. All things she'd never had until she'd joined the Companions. Meeko was the gift she gave to Drake on his first birthday, wanting him to having everything she never did. Tomorrow was his sixth birthday. By the Nine, how the time flew.

In her heart of hearts, Fianna didn't want him to grow up. She wanted to keep him as he was, young and innocent and safe. She wanted to keep him with her for all time, to shield him and protect him from the world and the people in it. He was her heart. Losing him would break it.

Fianna noticed the pieces of charcoal and several sheets of parchment lying beside Drake, most of the drawings unfinished, and she couldn't help but smile. "Drake loves to draw. I think I even see one of you," she said to Wolf who was standing behind her as she continued to stare fondly at her sweet little boy while he slept. "I love his drawings. I have kept every single-"

"I don't care."

Wolf's abruptness and impertinence stunned her speechless. Her body tensed and twisted to face the Blade. He was staring at her with a bored expression. When she finally found her tongue she muttered a curt, "That was very rude."

Wolf made a low sound of dismissal in the back of his throat, and Fianna bristled at his callous demeanor. She also didn't particularly care for the way he looked at Drake like he was some wet dog covered in fleas.

As she stared at him, she felt her temper rising, positive now that she really, really didn't like this brute of a man, which was new for her since there wasn't a single person on this earth that she disliked. Until now.

"You could be a little nicer, you know," Fianna scolded tersely. "I did save your life."

Wolf shot her a look full of scorn. "And it looks like I'll be reminded of that fact every second that I'm stuck here."

"Much to my regret," she grumbled, irritated with his surly manner.

"I don't wish to be here any more than you." His answer was gruff, harsh. "I will leave as soon as the storm passes."

She sent him a withering glance. "I think that will be best."

"We finally agree on something," he said with an acerbic edge.

Their eyes clashed and warred. Insults lingered on the tip of her tongue, ready to strike, but she bit her tongue. Even in just a simple black tunic and black slacks, he looked powerful and masculine with broad shoulders and strong bodylines. His considerable bulk reminded her of Farkas, which warned her of the strength this man possessed. She should be careful around him. He was strong, capable, assured despite his weakened state due to the poison. Regardless, he was not a man to be trifled with. In all honesty, the cave seemed too small to hold him.

"Do you have any whetstones?" Wolf asked abruptly through gritted teeth, his eyes still sparking.

Fianna blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Whetstones?" he repeated, talking slowly as if she were slow. "Sharpening my sword calms my blood."

"There are whetstones lying beside the fire and your things are over there," she replied curtly with a wave of her hand to where his Blades armor sat against the wall of the cave.

Wolf tore his gaze from hers and moved to his armor with long, taut steps, his hands fisting at his sides as if he were struggling to reel in his temper.

Fianna exhaled a long, slow breath as she stared after him. She rolled her tense neck on her shoulders before moving to the fire. Fianna knelt down and tossed a couple logs on the fire and the cave magically came to life with light and warmth.

Wolf bent down, balancing on the balls of his feet as he searched frantically through the numerous pieces of Blades armor, but Dragonbane was nowhere to be found. "It's not here."

Fianna looked up at the quietly spoken words. "Huh?"

Wolf was moving, advancing on her with the grace of a predator - alert, stalking, menacing. His eyes were ignited with anger and she backed away, but he was still coming until suddenly he was right in front of her, boring down on her.

Fianna was forced to look up as Wolf snarled savagely at her. His cruel visage was frightening, the set of his jaw belligerent, his mouth ruthless and brutal. He had a formidable presence, an imposing figure, clearly capable of great violence. His great height and powerful, broad-shouldered frame was made up entirely of hard, bulging muscle that displayed the raw power he possessed. His commanding bearing both frightened and intimidated.

Having him so close made her feel catastrophic - made him seem larger. She suddenly felt very small and very powerless, even though she knew she wasn't. Fianna's startled gaze flicked sideways to instinctively check for an escape route. She could unleash a Fireball, scoop up Drake, turn Meeko on the Blade for a distraction and run out of the cave and never look back. Meeko would be able to find them, he knew where her safe houses were.

"Where is it, thief?!" Wolf's words were clipped and accusing, his slate-grey eyes hard with fury.

Fianna stared up at him nonplussed. "Where is what?"

"Don't play dumb with me. Where is it?!" he gritted out harshly, and she flinched from the force of his anger.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she snapped quietly. Her eyes flickered to Drake's sleeping form. "And please lower your voice."

"My sword! Where is it?" he stated forcefully, keep his voice low, his eyes still locked with hers.

Her arms crossed over her armored chest, her mouth pulling tight beneath her mask. "How the hell should I know?"

"Because you stole it!" Wolf spat with a fulminating glare as he closed in on her.

Growing hot with indignant anger, Fianna forced herself to reply calmly, "I did no such thing. And I do not take kindly to false accusations."

"You are a liar!" he hissed, pointing a condemning finger in her face.

Fianna's chin tucked as her fingers dug into her arms. "When I found you lying like a corpse in the snow you weren't holding any sword and I was too busy trying to save your life to worry about some piece of steel."

"Do not lie to me." Those hard gray eyes searched hers almost violently, probing, judging.

Her spine straightened under his coldly assessing gaze, her chin held high. "I am not lying. I do not have your sword. I never saw it. You must have dropped it on the field."

His eyes narrowed as his jaw worked, and she could hear his back teeth grinding against each other. "That sword is priceless to me. It was a gift. It was given to me by…"

Fianna's blonde eyebrows bunched together beneath her cowl as his damaged voice trailed off, something grave and forlorn reflected in his face. "It was given to you by who?"

There was a flicker of something in his black-gray eyes before they hardened, becoming cold and emotionless again, his face turning into stone before her very eyes. He averted his face with a quick snap of his chin, clearly dismissing the conversation.

The silence that followed was deafening.

"You must be starving," Fianna blurted out, unable to stand the silence any longer, quickly putting some much needed space between them.

Wolf's eyes flickered to her, boring into her with that impenetrable intensity that rattled her nerves. Those eyes were as hard and cold as his features.

"Umm… why don't you have a seat by the fire?" Fianna suggested politely, her hand motioning to the fur pallet before the fire. "I'll get you some soup. It's my son's favorite."

Wolf continued to watch her stoically with that _stare_ that threatened to unhinge her.

"Or you can just keep standing there. Staring. You know… whatever," she muttered dryly as she moved passed him to one of her many packs that were lying scattered around the cave. She pulled out a small, clay bowl and wooden spoon and moved to the kettle that was hung over the fire. Fianna ladled out a bowl of steaming hot soup and handed it to Wolf.

The raven-haired Nord stared up at her vacantly, unmoving, unblinking.

"Eat," she said firmly, shoving the bowl in front of his face.

There was a coldness, a distrust lurking behind his emotionless gaze.

Her eyes rolled. "It's not poisoned, if that's what you're thinking."

After another long stretch of uneasy silence, the taut expression eased from his features, softening the grim line of his mouth. Wolf reached up and took the bowl from her, his fingers purposefully avoiding touching hers. Fianna then returned to the kettle to get her own bowl.

Wolf sat on the spare fur pallet in front of the fire and Fianna sat on the boulder opposite him with the fire between them. The only sound was the popping of the logs over the fire and the howl of the storm raging violently outside as they ate their soup slowly and silently, with Fianna having to turn away from him each time to pull down her mask to take a spoonful into her mouth. As soon as she was done eating, Fianna tried to ignore looking directly at Wolf, but the Nord warrior's presence took up so much space in the small cave and filled it with a commanding air of virility, her very breath felt threatened. She shifted uncomfortably on the boulder, as the cave seemed to shrink and shift until his presence took up every square inch. She was glad the embarrassing flush of awareness on her face was hidden beneath her cowl and mask.

Against her will, Fianna felt her gaze shift to Wolf. Her eyes raked over the Nord warrior as he silently ate his soup before the fire. The battle-hardened warrior seemed so withdrawn, so severe. He was untouchable and acidic, eyes jaded and brittle. As she stared at him, studying him, she couldn't help but compare him to Vilkas, a horrible habit she did with every man she met. And there was no doubt about it, Wolf was nothing like Vilkas.

Vilkas was noble, kindhearted, honorable, fair, and merciful. Wolf was immoral, dangerous, vicious, disreputable, and ruthless.

Vilkas was warm, brilliant, and passionate. Wolf voice was dark, cold, and unfeeling.

Vilkas had a slim, sinewy figure with trim, lean muscle. Wolf's body was overly large and made up entirely of endless, tightly corded muscle.

Vilkas' voice was deep, smooth, and honeyed, like butter melting in a warm pan. Wolf's voice was dark, raw, guttural, the sound of it akin to broken glass being dragged across a gravel road.

But the main difference between the two men was their eyes.

Vilkas had vivid white-silver eyes that were highlight by the black war paint that surrounded them, like the moon shining bright against a cloudless midnight sky. Vilkas' heart's fire always burned brightly, vibrantly, fiercely in those steel-colored eyes.

Wolf's eyes contained no fire, no heat, only smoke. His black-grey eyes were empty, hollow, lifeless. They were vacant - no emotion, no warmth flickered within them. They were cold. So cold. Haunted.

Haunted, haunted eyes.

They were the eyes of a man who had seen too much, lost too much. Fianna knew a lot of the men who joined the Blades were men who'd lost their families, their children, their wives, their entire villages to dragon fire. Men who were filled with nothing but hate and sorrow and vengeance, and had nothing left to lose. Wolf was one of those men. There was no doubt.

Fianna felt tremendous guilt every time she saw a Blade soldier. Guilt for not fighting beside them as was her responsibility as Dragonborn. Guilt for the lives that were taken by dragons that were being resurrected because of her failure. Guilt for not being able to stop it.

Fianna looked away and put her bowl down before turning her attention back to Wolf. "So… ugh… how are you feeling?" she murmured softly, her quietly spoken voice breaking through the silence.

Wolf tensed. "I'll live, I promise you," he replied in that grating voice without bothering to look at her. "I will not die in a cave."

"Why do you say that?"

His eyes flickered up to meet hers, the intensity there arresting. "I'm destined to die in battle."

"Why?"

"It's a family tradition."

Her cowled head tilted, curiosity gleaming in her mossy-green eyes. "How many times in battle have you snatched victory from the jaws of defeat? Outnumbered, outflanked, but still you triumph?"

His expression shuttered. "Too many to count," he answered after a long pause before looking away from her, clearly done talking, dipping his spoon in the soup and returning to eating.

Curious now, she couldn't help but say, "Wherever I go in Skyrim, I hear your name. The Wolf of the Blades. That name is always half whispered, as if you were a god." Her lips quirked beneath the black cloth of her mask. "Are you?"

Without looking at her he responded in a flat tone, "Am I what?"

"A god?"

The wooden spoon in his hand paused in front of his lips. His eyes shifted to Drake and Meeko in the corner of the cave. "I am no more god than the creature your son is sleeping with," he replied evenly before putting the spoon into his mouth.

Fianna crossed her legs on the boulder, resting her elbows on her knees, a smirk hidden beneath her mask. "But the stories of your prowess in battle are legendary."

"The gifts the gods gave me I use in battle," Wolf replied indifferently before lifting the edge of the clay bowl to his lips and finishing off the last of his soup in one swallow. He set the bowl down on the ground and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "We Blades are blessed in that we do not run from battle. We seek it, hunger for it, grasp it by the throat and demand honor in our passing."

Fianna snorted. "The people of Skyrim fear the Blades. They believe the Blades are trying to take the Snow Tower for themselves while it lies sundered and kingless."

Wolf's expression became thunderous. "We Blades wield our weapons in defense of a valiant cause - to root out evil and destroy Alduin's soul."

Fianna gave him a sharp look. "But you kill and kill often. I saw you on that battlefield a few days ago, Wolf. I saw the way you enjoyed it, enjoyed being the one to deliver so much death. I saw the bloodlust in your eyes. There is no honor in that."

His dark eyebrows pulled low and tight over his clouded eyes. "Like you're any different. You killed the assassin who used to own that armor you're wearing. You killed her for what she had. You killed her because you _wanted_ to."

Fianna's chin lifted sharply, green eyes flashing. "I don't kill for pleasure, Blade."

Something dark and wholly disturbing gleamed in his eyes. "You should try it some time." A wolfish grin split his face. "You might get a taste for it."

Her eyed widened in repugnance. "That's a horrible thing to say." She raked him with a contemptuous gaze. "Only someone truly heartless could kill another human being for personal gratification."

His stormy gaze narrowed on her with contempt. "I've seen horrors, woman, horrors you can't even imagine. You know nothing of me. You have no right to judge me. There is only one way to fight horror… true horror… and that is with terror. You have to be able to utilize your gods given primordial instincts to kill without hesitancy. Without feeling. Without passion. Without judgment."

Fianna met his gaze and burned her scorn into those harsh, world-weary eyes. "Have you no remorse?"

Wolf's hard, chiseled face was set like granite, matching the color of his eyes. "None."

"You use people to get what you want, and suffer no remorse about it?" She murmured in disbelief as she gazed into the Blade's unmoved and expressionless face. Her voice became beseeching, "But you are Commander of the Blades! Skyrim is now host to giant, flying lizards! You're supposed to be their protector!"

"Wrong," he snapped harshly. "You are thinking of the Dragonborn. We Blades live by the sword and stand against evil. We use skill to champion justice and defend right with might. We have to take lives in order to do that."

Fianna's gaze shifted to Drake as he rolled onto his side, kicking off the wolf pelts that covered him, snuffling the way kids do, until he slipped back into sleep again. "But life is to be valued, not destroyed," she replied in a distant voice. She seemed to be far away in thought, or memory, as she murmured softly, "I learned that a long time ago."

After a moment of being lost in painful memories, Fianna looked away from Drake to find Wolf staring at her. Intently. Unwavering. The entirety of his attention was focused on her, his slate eyes deep and penetrating. She found it difficult to breath as those captivating eyes seared into hers. Her blood did a slow burn and then quickly chilled. Her pulse raced and her heart battered her ribs, rattling her composure. Something inscrutable passed in his eyes before he gave one short nod.

Fianna turned away from him, jerking her head forward and looking into the fire. She tried to ignore the Blade, but she could feel him watching her. She could feel those eyes burning into her skin. Stealing a glance at him, Fianna found herself pinned by his bold regard. He was watching her steadily, his expression like a blank mask, which made her feel uneasy.

"Show me your face," Wolf commanded abruptly, his voice brooking no argument.

Her stomach dropped with an all too familiar panic. "I'd rather not."

"Why?" His eyes traveled over her body in cold, dispassionate appraisal. "What do you have to hide?"

Fianna licked her suddenly dry lips beneath her mask, a piece of the cloth sticking to her tongue, going into her mouth, and she swallowed it. She opened her mouth and let the practiced lie slip smoothly between her lips, "My hometown was burned to the ground by dragon fire. I suffered heavy, disfiguring burns. I'm sensitive about them. I don't like being seen." She lied, a lie she'd been using for the past six years whenever someone questioned her about her concealed face.

Wolf appeared dubious, but he said nothing. His grey eyes abruptly dropped to her left hand and zeroed in on the gold band on her finger.

"You're married." A declaration. Not a question.

Her breath caught and panic rose up to shrink her guts.

His eyes lifted sharply to clash with hers. "Where's your husband?"

Fianna was at a loss for words, her breathing unsteady. While she formulated a response, the dark stranger continued to stare at her, his piercing eyes boring into hers. "He's… not here."

"Why?" He didn't surrender her eyes.

Damn him. Wolf was far too perceptive for her liking. Damn him. Damn him to Oblivion. He had no right to probe into her life.

"I'd rather not discuss it," she grumbled in response with more than a hint of finality. To say she kept to herself might have been the understatement of the year. But by virtue of what she was, her solitary lifestyle wasn't even a choice. It was a necessity. Actually, she'd grown used to it. Truthfully, she was happy and didn't need anything – or anyone – else but her son.

"Why are you staying in this cave and not at the inn in Dawnstar?" His eyes were on her, dissecting and questioning.

She remained silent, her chest rising and falling swiftly with her short, clipped breaths.

"You are hiding," he concluded firmly. "Why?"

Fianna knew she should lie again, lie and never stop lying, but for some unfathomable reason, as she stared into those entrancing grey orbs, she found herself unable to push the lie past her lips and instead found herself telling him the truth.

"There is a man… a man who cannot know where I am," Fianna whispered, her voice fracturing with fear. "He is searching for me. If I am seen by anyone, believe me, he _will_ find me. I _cannot_ allow that to happen."

"You're afraid of him." It was a statement. Not an inquiry.

Seeing the icy glitter in his eyes, she shifted nervously as she gave one small nod in confirmation.

Wolf stared at her, his expression dark and grave, and then he murmured, "Is this man Drake's father?"

She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. "Yes." There was an edge of bleakness in her tone.

As they kept their eyes locked, something clicked in his gaze and she knew he had begun to understand.

"Does he intend to cause you or your son harm?" His voice held an edge of steel.

Fianna nodded slowly and felt his intense gaze searching her cowling, as if to read her hidden expression. "While I'm here, you and your son are both under my protection," he said firmly with resolute conviction. "No harm will come to either of you, this I promise."

"Thank you. I appreciate that," Fianna answered in a whispery voice, though she knew she needed no protection from him.

"Sleep," Wolf ordered suddenly.

Fianna's lips lifted into a smirk beneath her mask. "I should be the one telling you that. You're the one injured after all." She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth as she grew uneasy. "There are herbs that need to be applied to the wound on your chest to clean out the infection the poison left, and your bandages need to be changed." She chewed nervously on her bottom lip. "Do you want me to-?"

"I can do it," he interrupted her with a look of disgust, as if he would rather battle a dragon than have her touch him.

"S-Sure," she stammered, embarrassed and slightly offended by his abhorrence to her. "The herbs and wrappings are on the ground beside the spare fur pallet."

Wolf grunted in answer before turning away from her and heading for the spare fur pallet before the fire. He reached down to pull his tunic over his head, revealing his white bandages and broad shoulders and a bare back that was roped with long, smooth cords that rippled beneath alabaster skin that was taut and smooth. The only breaks to that perfection were the copious scars that adorned his flesh. Old faded scars were mixed among fresh ones that were peppered all over his skin - testaments to his life as a warrior.

Sweet Mara, he was hewn like a statue of stone and endowed with a breathtaking male body, powerful and tautly muscled, well-toned by years of battles, honed to steel by the rigors of the life he led. A flash of onyx caught her gaze and her eyes fixed with interest on the black moon howled at by a black wolf that had been tattooed on the left shoulder blade of his back.

The Nord stopped at the spare fur pallet and turned to reach down for the herbs and bandages resting on the ground. Fianna's breath caught slightly, and she dearly hoped Wolf hadn't heard it, when her eyes came into contact with a very masculine torso that was chiseled and cut with endless lines of hard, bulging muscle. Her eyes widened when they fell to his exposed lower abdominals and the lines along his sides that formed a deep V at his hips that disappeared into his low riding black pants.

Heat crept up her neck and bloomed in her cheeks, something that hadn't happened in years. Mortified at her reaction, Fianna ducked her head thankful her roasting cheeks were hidden beneath her cloth mask, and quickly moved to the pale of water resting on the ground beside the fire and filled a clay cup. Keeping her back to him, she pulled down her mask and downed the water, quenching her thirst. She pulled her mask back over her nose and mouth before returning to her seat on the boulder. She forced her eyes to stare into the fire and not to stray to the very male and very shirtless Nord warrior who was currently tending his own wound while he sat on the fur pallet across from her. She was immensely grateful when he finished and pulled the black tunic back over his head, concealing all that virile strength and potent masculinity.

In the lengthening silence that followed, Fianna could hear the hiss of the coals in the fire and the persistent groan of the wind at the mouth of the cave. Unable to stop herself, Fianna's eyes flickered to Wolf who was sitting across the fire, watching the flames dance across the wooden logs. As relaxed as he appeared, power emanating from his body, electrifying the air around him. He was so icy and distant, detached, with no hint of emotion showing through his mask-like expression. His manner was hostile, unwelcoming, and reclusive. He came off as cold, hard, dangerous, and unfeeling.

But there was more to him than simply the darkness that lived within him, the violence that he lived for, the danger that surrounded him, and the potent broodiness that became him.

As she stared at him, at this menacing and enigmatic stranger, she couldn't help but remember the day she first brought him to this cave.

_With the hood of her black cloak pulled over her head and mask pulled up over her nose and mouth, the Dragonborn stumbled into the cave, barely able to keep the massive Nord warrior on his feet. One large arm was slung around her slender shoulders while his other hand was pressed against the gash on his chest, fresh blood mixed with poison seeping out between his fingers and staining his ebony Blades armor crimson. The Nord was as white as the snow she'd found him in, sweating and feverish, his eyes glazed over, and muttering things to himself. He was in shock and most likely seeing things. _

_She'd used all of her magic to keep him alive when she'd found him, but he needed warmth, water, health potions, and medicinal herbs - all of which were at the cave she was hiding out in with her son. But he was so large - having a good fourteen inches on her and at least a hundred pounds - and she was forced to use her horse to drag him up the mountain to the cave. _

_Thank the gods Drake was napping in the corner with Meeko. She didn't want her little boy seeing this. It would frighten him._

_With the Nord's arm thrown over her shoulder, the petite woman tried to walk him to the fur pallet that acted as her bed. "Okay, Blade. Let's get you lying down and then I'll patch you up and you can go."_

_He dropped his forehead to the side of her head and his long, sweat soaked black hair fell onto her shoulder and brushed her cheek beneath her hood. He stumbled along with her, making it even harder to hold him up. "My name's not Blade," he rasped, his words slurred. _

_She paused for just a second and he swayed on his feet, blood dripping onto the floor of the cave. That was the first time she'd heard him speak and his voice… gods… it sounded horribly damaged, as if each word was wrapped in gravel and then dragged painfully across broken glass. She wondered how he came by it. _

_With great difficulty, they made it in front of the fur pallet, and she started to peel him off of her. "Okay, Blade. Whoever you are. Just lie down."_

_The massive Nord warrior fell onto the fur pallet, but he didn't let go of her shoulders. She fell with him and immediately tried to pull away. "Please, don't," he begged, grabbing her by the arm and trying to pull her to the fur pallet with him. "You're going to be my wife… you swore… please… don't do this to me…"_

_"I'm not your wife," she said, freeing herself from his iron grip. She didn't know why she felt she had to clarify that when it wasn't like he was going to remember this conversation anyway. He was feverish and obviously hallucinating. _

_She stood and retrieved her health potions, herbs, and wrappings for his wound. With her arms full, she returned to her patient. _

_She paused, standing stock still in front of him. He was on his side, his face pressed into the fur pallet, his blood-soaked fingers clutching the fur so tight his knuckles had turned white. __He was shaking, violently, his shoulders jerking sharply as if he were crying, but he made no sound and there were no tears. _

_Something within her knotted. This man was in pain that had nothing to do with the gash on his chest. So much pain. She could see it. Feel it. It was so palpable it was practically a living, breathing thing in the room. She flinched, the devastation of it too hard to watch. __Her heart went out to this stranger. She'd never liked seeing anyone hurting, especially like this. _

_With a sympathetic smile, she lowered herself to her knees beside him and set her things down before touching his shoulder. "Blade?"_

_His head shot up and she sucked in a sharp breath as she stared into a tableau of pain and suffering reflected in his bloodshot eyes set in a pale, grief-stricken face covered in a thick black beard and curtained by long onyx hair. _

_"Please, don't," he said, lifting a hand out toward her. His hand wrapped around the back of her neck and pulled her forward to him, burying his face in the curve of her neck. "Please, don't leave me," he pleaded, agonized. "I won't survive it." _

_She gently pushed him back onto the fur pallet. "Rest," she said softly._

_His eyes full of bottomless sorrow and agony closed and he mumbled something to her which was incoherent, and lost consciousness._

Fianna's eyes shifted to discreetly watch Wolf out of the corner of her eye. She couldn't help but feel like an intruder who'd peeked through another's window and saw something she wasn't supposed to see - a broken soul encased in a hardened warrior. Something must've happened to him. Something devastating. Something painful. Something unforgiveable. She noticed he didn't wear a wedding ring. What happened to his wife? Did she die? How long ago? Did he have any children? She had so many questions.

"What happened to your wife?"

Fianna blanched. _Oh gods, no. I did not just say that out loud_.

But she did and everything about him stilled. Wolf's jaw snapped together like a steel trap, his entire body stiffening as if he'd been snap-frozen from head to foot. His body stiffened and tensed, and the air in the cave was suddenly nonexistent.

Wolf inhaled a deep breath, trying to hide it, but it was clear she'd hit a nerve. A very personal nerve that he kept very well guarded.

Fianna drew her bottom lip between her teeth beneath her mask, feeling tremors of anxiety forming within her stomach as she became aware that she'd inadvertently stepped onto very thin ice.

_He doesn't talk about his wife, apparently_.

"You thought I was your wife," she blurted out as an explanation. "When you were feverish and hallucinating you thought I was her."

His answer was taut silence, a muscle working violently in his jaw, his lips pursed in a severe line.

"You don't want to talk about her?" Fianna finally asked after a long, tension-filled pause.

"There's nothing to talk about," Wolf stated without inflection, though black flames flickered maliciously, disturbingly in his smoky gaze.

"So… what happened to her?" Fianna asked, the words sticking to the dry walls of her mouth.

His face contorted, a devastating look of pain and despair in equal measure crossing his features, and when she looked into his eyes she saw things she wished she never had to - pure bleakness and haunted bitterness beneath a cold, unfeeling mask. That look… it tore at her.

But a second later, a shutter came down on his features. His chin turned slightly toward her, hardened eyes of slate glittering beneath long onyx tresses. His expression was like stone, not even his eyes gave anything away.

"She betrayed me," the growl in his voice was sinister, and there was something dark and malevolent in his eyes as he spoke of her. "And one day I will right that wrong with her life." His damaged voice was so quietly deadly, so filled with rancor that Fianna cringed at the sound of it.

She swallowed, hard, her throat working. "What did she-?"

"Leave it be," he snapped in a clipped voice, his lips cemented into a hard line as a clear warning.

Fianna could feel her hands sweat and her pulse leap. Knowing she'd treaded into dangerous territory, she swiftly got to her feet and uttered a quiet goodnight.

While she tidied up the cave and prepared for bed, Fianna couldn't help but glance covertly at Wolf where he remained sitting in front of the fire. His elbow was resting on his bent knee, eyes trained on the flames of the fire.

His expression was unsmiling, with no sign of warmth in those thundercloud eyes. She now knew what had happened to him to make him so cold, so unfeeling, so remote. A woman had betrayed him. A woman he'd once carried deeply for. And he was in pain. So much pain. Fianna couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him, and wonder what he was like before his wife betrayed him. Though, what exactly the woman did, Fianna still didn't know.

Her eyes raked his face, well, the few parts not covered by his beard and she couldn't help but think that he had a dark and wild sort of beauty.

But dangerous. Very dangerous.

With the light of the fire reflecting off his face, she noticed the black and blue bruising forming beneath his eye where her elbow had collided during their fight outside the cave.

Fianna looked away from him and moved to one of the many packs lying around the room. She searched around the pack until she found the small bottle of ointment she was looking for. She poured some of the ointment onto the tips of her fingers.

With a suppressed sigh, Fianna moved toward him and knelt beside him on the fur pallet as he stared blankly into the fire, completely unaware of her presence. He appeared lost in his thoughts, in his memories, his long black hair curtaining his face. She reached out to touch the black and blue skin under his eye, right above his beard. She saw Wolf wince when she lightly traced her fingertips along his bruised skin to apply the ointment.

In a flash, his large fingers brusquely clasped her smaller ones. She jumped with a gasp as his fingers squeezed hers so tight that her bones rubbed painfully against each other. His jaw was clenched, his lips set in a firm line, the tendons standing out in bold relief on his neck. Every sinew and muscle of his massive bulk was rock-hard, tensed, posed for attack. His eyes were narrowed, their dark, strained depths turbulent, roiling.

"Don't touch me like that." His voice was low, deadly, while danger jumped and pulsed around him like fire.

A chill of uneasiness swept over her as the bones in her hand grinded together, the pain in her hand bringing tears to her eyes. The hard expression he wore made the rough planes of his face appear even more forbidding than usual and the fiery heat of his anger glowed liked banked embers in his eyes. Fianna was suddenly deathly afraid of this man, more afraid of him than she'd ever been of anything or anyone in her life.

His impenetrable granite eyes never left hers, never stopped piercing into her like knives as he pulled her fingers from his skin with a look of disgust and unceremoniously dropped her hand away from him.

Wide-eyed, Fianna pulled her now cramping hand to her chest, her other hand rubbing at it to sooth the hurt. "I-I… s-sorry… I…" she stammered.

Wolf got to his feet so suddenly she felt the rush of air from his movement against her mask and a second later he quickly marched out the mouth of the cave and into the blizzard raging outside.

Holding her throbbing hand to her chest, Fianna stared, dumfounded at the mouth of the cave where she could see his towering, ominous figure disappear into the downpour of endless sheets of snow and ice pelting unmercifully down in a wild windfall of swirling flurries and hail.

She did not know this man. Yet, she had this strange feeling that he was very similar to the blizzard he had just walked out in. He was more like a force of nature than a man – cold and biting like freezing rain, magnificently untamed as a hurricane, and every bit as impactful and destructive as a tornado.

And she couldn't shake the sense of foreboding that by saving his life she'd just been sucked into the eye of the storm.

**Author's Note**: This chapter has a soundtrack: _Silhouettes _by Of Monsters And Men. You can hear the whole song for free on YouTube.


	5. Chapter 5 - Nightmares

**The Boy With The Crimson Eyes**

**Chapter 5 – Nightmares**

_I dream you're still here_

_Ever slightly out of reach_

_I dream you're still here_

_But it breaks so easily_

_I try to protect you_

_I can't let you fade_

_I feel you slipping_

_I feel you slipping away_

_- Still Here (Acoustic Version) by Digital Daggers_

The next day Wolf sat on the dark, cool, raw earth of the cave with his back pressed against the solid rock wall. One arm rested on a bent knee. Hundreds of stalactites descended from the ceiling, like large brown icicles dangling over his head. Stalagmites grew randomly out of the ground, some so big and tall they were like large brown columns while others were only a foot or two high. His onyx hair hung wet to his shoulder blades, the ends dripping cold water that soaked into his black tunic. He'd had to fight the snowy elements to even find the nearby icy creek and then almost froze to death trying to quickly clean the wound on his chest and remove the dirt, blood, and grime that covered his skin and hair.

After his freezing bath, he'd considered leaving - climbing down the mountain and returning to the Blades Fortress. But he'd been outdoors in the snowstorm for only thirty minutes and he knew he had to return to the safety and warmth of the cave. His body was still too weak, the blizzard too violent, the mountain too tall. He'd never make it to the bottom of the mountain alive.

Wolf exhaled heavily as he sat unmoving in the darkest part of the cave. The musty, wet-smelling air filled his lungs. A chilling silence surrounded him as he stared blankly at the flowstone and dripstone on the walls.

Quiet. Darkness. Emptiness. Isolation.

These were the things that surrounded him. These were the things he'd grown accustomed to over the years. These were the things that were familiar to him now. These were the things that made up his life. He found solace in them now.

Wolf's eyes flickered to the woman sleeping on the fur pallet across the cave, close to the dwindling fire. She still wore her assassin armor with the attached black cowl and mask that covered everything but her eyes. Her reedy arms were wrapped around her son, his little back pressed against her chest. The massive warhound sat protectively at their feet, his head resting on his paws, his eyes trained on Wolf, as if he was well aware of where the danger lied.

Wolf's dark grey eyes were expressionless as they flickered over the black and red leather armor that covered the mysterious woman like a second skin. While he found her figure somewhat appealing, he knew it was only because he hadn't had a woman in a while. She was too short, too skinny, her curves too slight, her body too soft. He preferred his women to be robust Nords with buxom figures, voluptuous curves in all the right places, and long legs to wrap around him - a strong, tough-skinned woman. Besides, she had a kid, which was a deal breaker for him even if he was interested, which he wasn't.

Talos, he just wanted to get the hell out of there and return to the Blades. He wanted to get back to doing what he did best - killing. He lived for his job, found purpose in it. It was all he had. He needed this storm to pass as quickly as possible. He needed to be gone from here. The less time he spent around Fianna, the better. He knew she felt the same way about him.

A swell of rage rose within him as he remembered what Fianna had told him last night. He still couldn't believe what he'd inadvertently let slip while he was feverish with the poison in his system. She knew. She didn't know much, only that there was a woman in his past, but even knowing that was too much for him. He deeply regretted sharing that piece of himself with her, a piece he never wanted to share with anyone, a piece he wanted dead and buried.

Had she done it on purpose? Had she been trying to extract information out of him? It wouldn't be the first time. Who was she? She had an air of mystery and hidden melancholy about her that he found interesting and he couldn't help but want to learn all of her secrets. She said she was hiding from what he assumed was an abusive husband, but he found that to hard to believe after seeing her fight last night. But, then again, perhaps her husband belonged to one of the many factions in Skyrim. Perhaps she feared the group retaliating against her for her desertion of her husband. He didn't know, and he honestly didn't care, so long as she didn't intend to cause him harm.

Fianna's questions and prodding into his past had brought with it the black anger that was so much a part of him now. He remembered feeling that anger last night when she'd touched him. He didn't like being touched, not anymore. He knew his anger and temper were volatile. He knew he should tell her to leave him the hell alone… to get her and her son away from him. He wanted to warn her that his anger was dangerous… that he was dangerous.

Some time later, Wolf watched the woman and her child awaken. He kept as far away from them as possible, determined to remain silent and in the shadows until the storm cleared and he could return home to the Blades fortress. But the mask-wearing woman, the boy, and even the dog repeatedly tried to approach him and talk to him, but Wolf ignored them. They eventually stopped trying, much to his satisfaction.

Wolf tried not to watch as the woman made breakfast of oats and cinnamon, her son helping her, the two talking amicably and laughing as they did so about stupid things and inside jokes. Wolf's eyes followed her closely as she left him a clay bowl on the floor a few feet away from him. Wolf only took it when her back was turned and finished it quickly, leaving the bowl empty on the ground in front of him.

For the rest of the day, Wolf remained isolated and unmoving on his fur pallet in the corner of the cave while Fianna spent the day with her son.

After breakfast, the two began performing very strange physical exercises that Wolf had never seen before. They would stretch and twist their bodies into strange positions. The exercises looked Altmer, if he had to guess, based on the gracefulness and flexibility required to perform the movements. Had she been to Summerset Isle? Wolf abruptly shook his head. What did he care where she'd been? He didn't.

After their bizarre exercises, Fianna spent a few hours teaching Drake his letters, mathematics, and other subjects. Wolf couldn't help but be impressed as he listened to her instruct her son. The kid was clearly a prodigy.

Wolf found it strange that the woman taught her son not only the Nordic language, but also every other language of Tamriel – the languages of the different races. She taught him each race's histories, their heroes, their stories, their culture, their religion, their beliefs. It was unusual, but intriguing. Wolf had always had a hunger for knowledge, and he couldn't deny that he approved of her methods to inform her son on all of the races instead of just one.

After that, the woman bundled the boy up in layers on top of layers of clothes before throwing four bear pelts over him. She then secured her own winter cloak around her shoulders and the two left the cave into the snowstorm raging outside. When they returned a short while later, the woman was carrying a vine of snowberries and the boy had wet hair. They were both shivering, their teeth chattering so loud Wolf could hear it from across the cave. They must have taken a bath in the icy creek like he did, Wolf assumed.

Fianna made lunch of leftover soup and left a bowl on the floor a few feet away from him again. Fianna and Drake huddled together before the fire, the boy sitting on his mother's lap as she fed spoonfuls of soup to him and told him the story of Oreyn Bearclaw, a legendary Bosmer hero who slew the Glenhwyfaunva of Elven Root, protecting his clan in the process. While she was turned away from him, Wolf picked up the bowl and ate every last bit of it.

After that, they went back to their studies. Honestly, Wolf was a little surprised at the extent of her knowledge. She was educated; he'd give her that. The intrigue, as inexplicable as it was profound, kept him silent and thoughtful as he contemplated the woman reading to her son.

Once the child's lessons were done, Drake took to drawing. He ran across the cave, nearly tripping over his little legs to get parchment and charcoal. The boy then threw himself onto the fur pallet he shared with his mother. He was lying on his stomach, his small feet swinging happily in the air as he hummed softly while he began to draw. Every now and then the kid would look over at Wolf, stare at him for a second, before returning to his drawing.

While the boy sketched, Fianna began collecting all of the scattered plates and bowls around the cave, including Wolf's, and washed them in one of the pales of water. When she was done with her task, Fianna began making a popular Skyrim dessert: snowberries and cream. She plucked the snowberries from the vine she'd procured and arranged them on a plate in a smiley face before dabbing a few spoonfuls of the cream in the middle. She picked up the plate, her eyes crinkled in the corners as if she were smiling beneath her mask.

"Happy Birthday, little sparrow!" Fianna exclaimed brightly as she turned to face her son.

"Snowberries and cream!" the boy yelled in his excitement and joy, the charcoal and parchment in his hands momentarily forgotten.

"Your favorite," Fianna replied as she set the plate down in front of the boy on the fur pallet. She then sat beside him and pulled him into her lap, wiping the charcoal off of his hands with a rag.

The boy picked up the plate, staring at the treat in awe and wonderment. "For me?"

With tenderness she brushed away the raven locks that had fallen into his green eyes. "All for you."

"Wow…" Drake murmured before smiling broadly up at her. "Thanks mommy! I love it! I love it! I love it!" He gave her a wet, noisy kiss on her masked lips. "I love you, mommy!"

Her eyes crinkled more in the corners beneath her cowl. "I love you too, little sparrow."

Nearly bursting with excitement, the boy picked up a snowberry and dipped it into the cream before popping it into his mouth and eating it slowly, savoring it, thoroughly enjoying himself.

Feeling like an intruder in their tender moment, Wolf awkwardly looked away from them. He removed the bandages on his chest and cleaned the wound before reapplying the medicinal herbs and replacing the soiled bandages with clean ones. When he was done, he settled back on his fur pallet, one arm behind his head as he stared up at the iciclelike lime deposits that hung from the ceiling. He must've drifted off to sleep because when he woke there was hardly any light coming from the fire.

With a sigh, Wolf rolled onto his side and froze when he came face to face with a small clay bowl set right beside his fur pallet. Curious, Wolf lifted his head and sat up on his elbow. He blinked a few times as he stared at the bowl that was filled with snowberries and cream. Wolf stared at the dessert, stunned. He couldn't remember the last time he had such a treat. He couldn't remember the last time someone offered him something like this.

Dark grey orbs shifted from the dessert to the woman who had undoubtedly put it there. She was sleeping with her son on her fur pallet across the cave, her slender arms holding the child so closely, so protectively to her chest.

His eyes lingered on her cloth-covered face longer than he liked.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The day after that, Fianna tried her best to ignore Wolf. She thought it would be easy since the man hadn't said one word to her since that first night and had kept to one corner of the cave that was so dark the Nord was practically shrouded in shadow. But it was hard not to notice his presence when it was invading everything around her. Anywhere she stood, anywhere she moved, she could feel him. He was everywhere.

"Mommy! Look what I did! Look mommy! Mommy, look!" Drake exclaimed happily beside her on the fur pallet, pulling her from her thoughts.

With a smile hidden behind her mask, she lifted Drake into her lap and hugged him in front of her, resting her cloth-covered chin on top of his head.

"Look mommy," Drake said as he proudly held the picture of a sunflower he drew up in front of him.

"It's very pretty," Fianna whispered in admiration as she studied her son's picture of her favorite flower.

"Pretty, mommy," Drake smiled up at her. "Just like you."

"Charmer," she chuckled, ruffling his messy hair. "Just like your father."

"I made it for you, mommy," the little boy beamed with a radiant smile.

"I love it, little sparrow," Fianna cooed as she nuzzled his hair gratefully. Over Drake's short mop of tousled jet-black hair, Fianna noticed with embarrassment how fixatedly Wolf was as he watched her with her son.

Her heart skipped a beat as she met his concentrated stare. She didn't know whether to say something in embarrassment or look away, so she just copied his next move, waiting for him to look away first.

He didn't.

He stared at her.

He always stared her.

Always from a distance.

But he stared nonetheless - riveted, fixated, unwavering.

It was unsettling. It made her skin crawl and the hairs on the back on her neck rise.

Wolf was a hard man, even harder to read. He held himself remote – distant and untouchable with no emotion. He never smiled. He never laughed. He didn't talk. His face appeared as if he kept a constant veil of armor between his expressions and the rest of the world. He was an enigma. She wasn't even sure that Wolf was his real name. She hardly knew anything about him, and there was an aura she couldn't penetrate.

But Sweet Mara she couldn't take much more of his _staring_.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next two days went by much the same way, with Wolf refusing to leave the solitude of the shadows of the cave while Fianna and Drake continued life as usual.

It was on the fifth day that Wolf found himself intrigued yet again by the mysterious woman he was sharing the cave with as he watched her play with her son.

"Spin me again, mommy! Spin me again!" Drake screeched from atop Fianna's shoulders.

She laughed. "Only if you can name five Nordic Heroes."

"Okay!" he cried, before listing off, "Ysgramor, Gormlaith… ugh… Jurgen Windcaller… umm… ugh… Olaf One-Eye, and… Kodlak Whitemane!"

"Very good, little sparrow!"

"Now spin me, mommy! Spin me! Spin me!"

Fianna laughed out loud as she tucked her arms under his little legs and held on tight as she spun herself around in a tight circle. Drake shrieked happily as he held his little arms out like wings, the wind blowing his mop of midnight hair back from his smiling face. "Look mommy, look! Look! I'm flying! I'm flying! Look mommy!"

Fianna finished spinning and with a shrug of her shoulders tossed his little body over her head and caught him in her arms, one arm under his knees and the other under his shoulders. She chuckled as she pulled him to her chest, pressing cloth-covered kisses to his face and neck, causing his little legs to kick wildly as he squealed in delight and burst into chortles of laughter when she rubbed her masked-cheek against his.

Wolf watched how loving, tender, playful and sweet she was with her son. She was so happy and positive with Drake it was infectious. Every time she spoke with Drake, the love in her voice and eyes was evident. Her tone would soften, her green eyes would brighten, and the child would hold her complete and undivided attention. Having no real memory of his parents, Wolf couldn't help but feel… something as he watched her. There was a… stirring in his gut that he could not name.

Wolf absently rubbed his thick, bushy beard. It was getting long. He hadn't shaved in… what? Six years? Almost seven? Strange, he'd never noticed until now.

Dark slate orbs stared fixatedly on Fianna as she tossed Drake into the air and the child squealed with glee and bust into giggles while she laughed along with him. The soft-honey sound of her laugh made Wolf, strangely, want to join in. It had been so long since he'd felt something so blithe as laughter. The Dragonborn's betrayal had destroyed the laughter in him. Yet, in the space of a few days, this mysterious woman and small boy made him feel more lighthearted than at any time in the last six years.

Wolf continued to rub his beard, his eyes never leaving the woman as she held her son in her arms and nuzzled his neck.

Maybe it was time for a shave.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next day, Fianna's nerves were so taut, so unsettled, she felt she'd go mad if she had to withstand one more day in such close quarters with the Wolf of the Blades. She felt like he was invading every inch of the cave, his presence pressing in on her from every direction. She couldn't take it anymore. She needed some air, some space. She needed to get away from him, even if she had to venture out into a blizzard on top of a mountain in Skyrim.

That afternoon, after Fianna and Drake had performed their physical exercises, Fianna gathered her bow, arrows, and a dagger and went out into the snowstorm to hunt for food and calm her nerves.

As soon as Fianna left the cave, Wolf stood and approached Drake carrying two wooden swords – one large one and one small one – that he'd made the night before when sleep had evaded him.

"Ooo, a sword!" Drake cried cheerfully as Wolf handed the smaller wooden sword to the boy who stared at it as if it were the most priceless item in the world. "Is this for me?"

Wolf grunted in confirmation. "I can no longer remain idle and watch while that woman makes you perform those frilly little stretching exercises. You are a man and a Nord. You will participate in them no longer."

"But I like my exercises!"

"You need to learn to fight, boy. Have you ever handled a sword?"

"Uh, no." Drake's eyes brightened. "Are you going to teach me, Wolf?! Are you?! Are you?!" the boy cried with eagerness, jumping up and down with excitement.

"Aye. I'm going to teach you how to take care of you and your own," Wolf replied firmly with authority. "Like every worthy Nord should."

The child's expression fell. "But… but fighting hurts people." His green eyes looked everywhere but at Wolf. "Mommy said to never hurt anyone."

"It's fine as long as you succeed in keeping you and yours safe."

Drake nervously rubbed his arm with the wooden sword in his little hand. "I don't know…"

"Never be afraid to try."

His dark eyebrows bunched together. "I'm not afraid!"

"Then let's get started." Wolf extended his sword arm. "Alright, lift your sword like this and hold it at an angle," he instructed.

"Like this?" The boy asked as he struggled with the wooden object.

"No," Wolf stated as he reached out to fix Drake's grip. "Like this."

"Okay!" Drake cheered happily, repositioning his grip.

Wolf walked to the center of the cave. Drake followed. "You will need to learn how to handle swords, for they are the best kind of weapon, in my opinion," Wolf stated. "Axes cause a fair amount of damage, but they require strength you do not have right now. Mallets and clubs are too barbaric. A mace would be too difficult for you to maneuver. Bows and arrows are handy, but have little use in close combat."

"My mommy has a bow!"

"I saw it. Now," Wolf said as he turned to face him and took a few steps away from him. He stopped and held his wooden sword in one hand. "Let me show you the basics. First, defense moves. If I bring my sword overhead like this," he slowly moved the blade up and toward Drake's forehead, "what do you do?"

Drake thought for a second before pulling his little sword up slowly with both hands, and held it horizontal above his head and met Wolf's sword. His little arms shook with the weight of the sword in his hands.

"Very good. And don't worry about the weight, your muscles will get stronger." He pulled his sword back. "Now if I do this?" he slowly moved his blade over to Drake's left side.

Drake responded quickly and blocked his slow move.

"And this?" Wolf moved his sword to his right side.

Drake followed him with his sword. He blocked again.

"Very good." Wolf pulled his sword back. He showed him how to block blows coming from below as well. They practiced each move a few more times.

"Good. Now to put them to a little practice. I'll go faster each time. This is to see how much you can take with just those simple moves." Wolf moved his sword at a steady pace and went to Drake's left.

The boy blocked it, still with both hands on the handle.

Wolf then attacked below, then left again, and then from above. Drake blocked them all, but still was a little slow. Wolf did more offensive moves, this time a little faster. Drake blocked again. He did more, even faster than before. Drake was too slow after the first couple of swings, and Wolf was able to tap his left shoulder.

"Oww," Drake whined, rubbing his shoulder with his hand.

"Always keep your guard up," Wolf commanded. "If given the chance, people will strike first." He lifted his sword. "Let us try it again."

They did. Drake was still too slow, and he was tapped on the right shoulder. Wolf began again. Drake tried, but the sword seemed to grow heavier in his hands. The little boy's black eyebrows bunched together in concentration as he tried again. This time he blocked all of Wolf's moves. The boy smiled then, big and bright, up at the Nord warrior.

"Very good."

"Wolf… if I work really, really hard do you think… do you think I'll ever get as good as you?"

"Aye. If that's what you want." The Nord warrior pointed his wooden sword at the boy. "But always be willing to work hard for the things you want. You will appreciate them that much more."

Drake was staring up at Wolf as if he'd grown two heads. "Why don't you talk this much all the time?"

Wolf shrugged carelessly. "Talos gave me two ears and only one mouth for a reason."

"Tell me a story!" the boy pleaded. "Please!"

Wolf scratched his bearded cheek while he thought. "I was briefly in the employ of an orc warrior once. I had to quit because he refused to bathe. Disgusting."

"Eww!" The boy burst into a fit of giggles. "Tell me something else! Tell me about the creatures you've fought!"

"Let's see…" Wolf mused as he rubbed his beard. "Becoming a hagraven requires a sacrifice to their foul deity. If you ever encounter one, show them no mercy before you become one of the victims."

"Really?!"

"And Spriggan are loathsome creatures. They summon some of the most benign beings of the forest and bend them to their will."

"Wow! How do they do that?"

"Well…" Wolf then educated the boy about Spriggans as they practiced the boy's defensive moves.

After some time, Wolf showed Drake the basic offensive moves that he had been using, and the boy practiced being on the offensive.

After a few hours of training, Wolf got into a fighting stance, which was mirrored by the child standing across from him. "Attack."

Drake yelled a Battle Cry, shaking his small wooden sword threateningly before he ran at Wolf. Just before the boy got to him, Wolf sidestepped to his left. Drake did a sharp turn with his sword and brought the point into Wolf's ribs.

"Impressive. Your instincts are very good." A hint of a smile played on Wolf's lips. "Clearly, you will be a great warrior someday."

"Like you!" the boy asked with stars of admiration in his eyes.

Wolf opened his mouth to answer when Fianna came storming into the cave. Her green eyes were mere slits beneath her cowl and white mist continued to form in front of her masked face despite being out of the storm. She threw the fresh meat onto the carving board and tossed her bow and arrows onto the ground as she marched toward Wolf.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?!" she demanded.

Wolf gave her a bored look. "Teaching the boy how to fight."

Her hands curled into fists at her sides as she glared at him with her eyes. "And who gave you permission to do that?"

Wolf's jaw clenched and he turned to Drake who was staring up at them with wide and confused eyes, the fear in them apparent. "Why don't you go practice at the back of the cave?"

"Oh-h… ugh… o-okay," Drake replied warily before he ran to the back of the cave, swinging his little wooden sword.

Wolf turned back to Fianna, his eyes sharp as knives. "It's clear your son doesn't have a man's influence, which he needs to be strong and independent."

Her eyes blazed. "Who the hell do you think you ar-?"

"He is a Nord," Wolf replied shortly, cutting her off. "There is a natural instinct that he has genetically deep down, an instinct that-"

"He's only a child!"

Wolf folded his broad arms. "I was killing at his age."

She pointed a firm finger at him. "I don't know what kind of life you've lived, but I don't want that life for my son," she ground out. "He's a smart boy. He'll be a scholar some day."

Wolf shrugged his broad shoulders. "He's pretty good with a sword in his hand and he likes it."

She cast him a disparaging look. "He will be a scholar, not some heartless killer with a piece of metal in his hand and straw in his head!"

His jaw was firm. "You got something against warriors?"

Her fists tightened at her sides. "I didn't say that."

He snorted with derision. "You didn't have to." He stepped closer to her, the harshness of his features and the long black beard on his jaw contributing to his air of fierceness. "Let me ask you this, who would you rather have with you when demons are at your door: a scholar with his book or a warrior with his sword?"

Her chin lifted, refusing to let him intimidate her. "I would rather have a man with the brains of a scholar _and_ a sword in one hand."

His chin tucked. "Aye. That's what a warrior is."

"No," she shook her head. "Warriors die."

He gave her a pointed look. "Everyone dies."

Green eyes rolled. "I mean warriors die quickly."

Wolf shrugged carelessly. "Only the bad ones die quickly."

"I want better for him!" she exploded.

Wolf's hard expression softened in the face of her impassioned cry. "Regardless of what you want for him, you must accept the fact that he is a Nord. From the age of five, Nordic boys spend most of their time training for war. My people value strength, skill, and bravery. The Nordic courage, discipline, and Battle Cry are what strikes fear into our enemies." He eyed her for a few seconds, then tilted his head slightly. "If his father were here, he would have taught the boy this already." There was a touch of censure in his voice.

Fianna averted her gaze, her lips pursed. She was well aware of the Nordic importance of strength. It was found in every piece of their culture, valued above all else. She'd even seen one Nordic man lose his life in what had started as a friendly test of strength. The victor was cheered for his victory, despite ending his friend's life. It was on that day that Fianna learned the importance of strength to the Nords. It was considered the highest virtue. Without strength, a man was a failure who brought shame on his family. It had occurred to her then that a Nord would rather die than lose a test of strength.

But she had not raised her son in the Nordic way. She wanted Drake to value wisdom and diplomacy above strength. She wanted him to use his mind before his brawn. She liked to think Vilkas would have felt the same despite being a Nord himself.

Fianna looked back at Wolf to find that unfathomable stare on her again. She wished he would stop doing that. It made her feel very awkward.

Her body tensed as Wolf stepped closer to her, keeping his eyes locked with hers, and she had to crane her neck back to keep the eye contact. "Was I wrong to teach the boy how to defend himself? How to protect those precious to him?" Wolf asked, his damaged voice low and scraping.

Fianna licked her suddenly dry lips beneath her mask. "I… I suppose not," she conceded.

"You are agreeing with me? I did not think you capable." She couldn't tell if he was kidding because there was no smile, no gleam in his eyes.

Her lips curved beneath her mask. "I'm capable of a great deal, Blade."

Wolf's lips curled up in the slightest of smiles, as if her response pleased him. "Of that I have no doubt."

The slight smile transformed his face. For a moment he not only looked human, but handsome. For the first time since she met him there was a warmth in his eyes. It was just a little spark, but it was there nonetheless, buried beneath all the ice and surliness.

Fianna swallowed the thickness that suddenly swelled in her throat as she stared mesmerized at the first smile she'd ever seen on him.

The silence stretched, becoming uncomfortable, and Wolf seemed as discomfited by it as she was. His slight smile abruptly faded and he broke his stare. The Nord quickly put space between them, moving away from her, as if he couldn't stand to be in her presence for another second.

Fianna's body deflated somewhat now that his attention was elsewhere, though her pulse still thumped wildly. She didn't understand him. His personality kept switching from intensely probing to callously indifferent. Even now it seemed he couldn't decide if he wanted to ignore her or look at her, since his eyes wavered from the ground to her several times.

She hated it. She had no idea what was going through his head. His emotions were always hidden behind that unwavering, stoic expression.

"Mo-mmy!" Drake suddenly sang, breaking through the awkward silence that had built between them.

"Wha-at?" Fianna asked, looking from Wolf to Drake, pretending to be completely unaffected by this man.

"Watch me-e!" the boy cried gleefully.

"I'm watching," she replied with a smile.

"You're not watching, mommy!"

"I'm watching," Fianna laughed as she moved passed Wolf, making sure no part of her touched him in her passing, thankful to finally get away from the intensity in Wolf's eyes.

Fianna watched Drake as he showed her every single move that he'd learned. Hours later, when she was finally able to pry the little wooden sword out of Drake's fingers, Drake began to cry. She'd never seen him so attached to something before and it rattled her. She quickly promised him that he would get the sword back as soon as he ate his dinner and she even gave him a new book to read. Drake sniffled and wiped his wet eyes and running nose with his sleeves before taking the book and curling up on their fur pallet.

While Fianna began preparing for dinner, Wolf was returning from outside the cave carrying armfuls of logs for the fire. Meeko's tail thumped noisily on the ground beside her as she salted the meat. She absently tossed him a scrap of meat as she studied Wolf discreetly out of the corner of her eye as she continued to prepare dinner.

She disliked how she was cognizant of Wolf's every move, but Mara help her, she couldn't stop herself from looking his way. There was just something about him that commanded a woman to look at him. And really, what woman wouldn't? His dark looks were undeniably attractive, he was made of nothing but muscle, all male perfection. He had this animal magnetism that pulled her in, would pull on any woman with a pulse. But she knew he had a block of ice for a heart and that he was dangerous. Very dangerous. The absolute last thing she needed in her life, or Drake's.

Wolf knelt down and added more wood to the fire. Black-grey orbs suddenly lifted to pin her in place. Heat welled up inside her as his gaze slowly drifted down the length of her. Fianna cringed at the way her heart sped up, her palms began to sweat, and knots tethered in her stomach. She hated it, because she knew what it meant. It meant her body was attracted to him.

She just couldn't let her mind catch up.

After dinner, Fianna hunkered down beside Drake on their shared fur pallet. She gazed lovingly at his features relaxed in sleep, soft with innocence. Drake's soft, regular breathing whispered in the semidarkness. Intense feelings of protectiveness and tenderness swept over her, while fierce love twisted powerfully, painfully in her chest.

She brushed back his midnight hair from his face, her eyes glowing with fondness. She bent and kissed his forehead, nuzzled his soft cheek. Fianna's fingers played gently with Drake's short black hair as she began to sing a soft, lilting little lullaby - a lullaby of Skyrim she first started singing to him the night he came into this world while she almost bled to death in an isolated cabin in Summerset Isle.

"Land of wolves and land of dragons.

Land that calls me ever homewards.

We will go home across the sea.

We will go home. We will go home.

Hear my song, hear my longing.

Take me home across the sea.

We will go home, little one.

We will go home someday."

With infinite care Fianna wrapped her arms around Drake's little shoulders and pulled his sleeping body to her, holding him to her chest, never wanting this moment to end, never wanting to be without him. This slip of a child was the center of her entire world, her heart, her everything. She'd pay any price, go to any lengths, to protect her son.

Fianna pressed her cloth-covered lips tenderly to the boy's raven-black hair before closing her eyes for sleep, unaware of the piercing grey eyes that watched her closely from the darkest part of the cave.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_Silver mist eyes. _

_That was all she could see._

_Nothing else existed._

_Nothing else mattered._

_They stared at her, into her, with all the love in the world. _

_They invited her in. They held her. They soothed her. _

_They promised her things she'd only ever dreamed of. _

_Trust. Those white-silver eyes held so much trust. Trust in her. Trust in them. _

_Vilkas was standing in front of her._

_Vilkas was smiling at her, with that smile that was meant only for her. _

_Vilkas was standing at the altar at the Temple of Mara._

_Vilkas was expecting her. Vilkas was happy to see her. Vilkas was waiting for her to walk down the aisle and promise forever. _

_She breathed deep. The air she took into her lungs was neither cold nor hot, but it burned nonetheless._

_She reached back and drew out an arrow from her quiver, the sateen material hugging her body inflexible and constricting as she drew her arrow. _

_She set the arrow and pulled back the bowstring. The white wedding dress she wore was restricting. It hindered her movements. It was stifling. She couldn't breathe in it._

_Her elbows pulled up and her chest expanded as she aimed, the dress pulling tight across her chest, the material suffocating._

_She aimed._

_Aimed for his heart. _

_Vilkas' hand lifted, extended toward her, his silver mist eyes surrounded by black war paint pleading, begging. _

_She exhaled slowly. _

_She released. _

_The arrow flew through the air._

_The arrow pierced his heart._

_Blood ran. _

_Blood ran like a river down his front until there was none left to bleed._

_Silver mist eyes stared at her accusing, hating, loathing until the life left them._

_She looked down and saw the same arrow she'd shot into Vilkas sticking out of her own chest, the arrowhead piercing her own heart, her blood soaking into her wedding dress until every inch of the white sateen had turned crimson. _

Fianna jolted upright in her fur pallet with a gasp, startled awake from the fitful slumber, the bear pelts clinging tenaciously to her sweat-damp body. Her lips were cold and dry, her breathing restricted due to the cloth mask covering her face that felt glued to her face by sweat. Her head was still swimming in fragments of the dream – the nightmare.

Her alarmed eyes shifted sideways to find Drake fast asleep and curled up on his side facing away from her, his little arms wrapped around Meeko's neck. Fianna freed herself from the fur pelts covering her before falling back against the fur pallet, her back making contact with the ground with a heavy thud. She stared up at the dank ceiling and let out a few slow and shaky breaths.

She dreamed of him again. It was the same dream she had over and over again. The same anguish. It was never the same, never in the same place, but his death always was. And it was always caused by her hand. For six years, now almost seven, she'd been running. But she couldn't escape her guilt. She was used to the dream by now, but it never failed to distress her, at least momentarily.

It was a haunting dream of a man whose face she had trouble remembering. She knew his hair was very black and that he was tall and very strong, strong enough to lift her easily off her feet and hold her before him to kiss her. But she couldn't remember his mannerisms or the tone of his voice or the things he liked and disliked, like clothes and food. Vilkas' memory was fading. She could feel it slipping away.

The nightmare faded, but it left a lingering ache in her chest. Fianna closed her eyes tightly and brought a tremulous hand up to her forehead to wipe the sweat from her brow beneath her cowl. Her hand fell limply to her side onto the fur pallet and she lay there for a moment, trembling, conscious of an incredible feeling of sadness and loneliness.

Moving beneath the bear pelts, Fianna curled up on her side, her arms going around her knees as she hugged them tightly to her chest. She'd tried for so damn long to get over him and she never truly had. Her body and heart would never stop craving what they couldn't have, what she'd willingly given up. She missed him. So much. Her body shuddered with an ache that could not be met. Her loneliness tonight felt deeper than usual.

"Dream?"

Fianna's eyelids fluttered open to stare at the wall as Wolf's guttural, rasping voice raked across her sensitive auditory nerves.

"Nightmare," she answered quietly, her voice breaking softly.

Fianna sat up slowly, her eyes searching the darkness of the cave until they collided with a pair of granite eyes that stood out in the dimness of the cave. Wolf was completely shrouded in shadow, but those eyes glittered like some nocturnal animal in the darkness that surrounded him. A shiver crept slowly down her spine like a piece of ice trailing down her back. She watched those penetrating grey orbs follow the shiver that worked down her body.

"Cold?" His voice was a low, deep rumble of sound, like far away thunder.

"Freezing." Her voice sounded breathy to her ears. She quickly cleared it.

She heard movement, a shuffling of clothes and feet, and then saw Wolf move toward the dying fire, stepping into the fading light the flames cast. The raven-haired Nord knelt down on the balls of his feet and tossed a few more logs on the fire. With his elbows resting on his bent knees, his hands dangling between his legs, his chin turned slightly toward her, his eyes locking onto hers. Her pulse stuttered as his eyes trailed over every inch of her face.

"Your eyes have a grim look," he stated.

She shrugged and lifted her chin. "Nightmares tend to have that effect."

Wolf nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving her face. "I know the feeling."

"Do you?" she asked gently.

His eyes finally released hers and she exhaled a breath she didn't even know she'd been holding. She swept a hand over her cowl that was covering her hair and stood. Those eyes followed her - smoky grey and long-lashed - as she moved across the cave and sat beside him on the fur pallet he'd moved in front of the fire.

Fianna wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on them before turning her head toward the Nord, and asking, "Do you have nightmares, Wolf?"

"Everyone has nightmares."

"But what is it that the infamous Wolf of the Blades has nightmares of?"

His expression became guarded, the shadows in his eyes deepening, becoming dark and forbidding.

"It's her, isn't it? Your wife?" Fianna murmured with grave severity. "She's the one you dream of."

Wolf went still as stone, instantly putting up an invisible wall of armor with his rigid posture and closed off body language. "She wasn't my wife."

"Who was she?" Fianna found herself asking, attempting to alleviate the awkward silence.

"My betrothed," he answered evenly, his expression impenetrable.

Fianna met his eyes and caught the bleakness in their depths, a flicker of something almost like torment. "You… you were engaged?"

"Yes." She caught the faint note of bitterness in his tone, but his expression remained enigmatic. "Regretfully."

Fianna shifted uneasily on the ground. She didn't know why she was bringing up this woman. Maybe it was because it was the only time she ever saw him portray any kind of emotion.

"Did she… die?" she found herself asking in a quiet voice.

Wolf's hands turned to fists at his sides, but that was the extent of his visible reaction. "I like to think so."

For a long moment he was silent, a silence that invited no entry. Fianna wanted to ask him more, but certain questions seemed off limits to him. She could already feel him closing off from her, saw the dark shutters appearing in his eyes and knew whatever he was thinking and feeling wouldn't be shared. Despite her curiosity, she knew she had no right to intrude on his thoughts, his emotions, or his life.

Wolf looked away from her to stare off into the distance, eyes glazed as if seeing something that wasn't there. A second later, Wolf looked dazed as he seemed to mentally shake himself before he gazed into the fire.

Fianna stared at his side profile, at his long hair that was like a curtain of darkness around him, at his face that was hard and inscrutable. It was a mask, she realized, like a shield of armor against the world.

"Sorrow and heartache is like carrying a boulder," she said softly. "The longer you carry it the heavier it gets."

"It's hard letting go," he replied quietly without looking away from the fire, his voice edged with sullenness.

She stared at his side profile. "But once you do, you'll finally find serenity."

"Serenity…" he murmured quietly, almost to himself. His eyes left the fire to clash with hers, reflecting a silent anguish. "Is that what you've found?"

"I've finally found peace but it feels… wrong," she murmured softly. "Something's… missing."

Wolf moved closer to her in the firelight, his eyes like wisps of smoke chasing a blown out flame. "What's missing?" he asked, his scraping, guttural voice the softest and huskiest she'd ever heard it.

Her heart hammered as his closeness engulfed her. She was aware of nothing else in the cave but his well-muscled, masculine body leaning into hers. Close. So close. Too close. His brooding sensuality was as potent as a bonfire. Her blood seemed to surge and pound with heat and fire. Her entire body was restless and unfamiliar. She didn't want to know this side of him. It was much easier to label him as a monster with a heart of ice.

Fianna tore her gaze away from his and stared into the fire, her heart galloping in her chest. She cleared her throat and straightened her legs out in front of her, resting her weight on her hands behind her. In the lengthening silence Fianna could hear the hiss of the coals in the fire and the persistent groan of the wind at the mouth of the cave.

Wolf shifted beside her, getting comfortable, and the hand on the fur pallet between them moved slightly. Her pounding heart leapt into her throat and became lodged there as the very tip his finger touched the outside of her knee.

Fianna's eyes flew sideways up to his face, but he wasn't looking at her. Wolf was staring straight ahead into the fire, as if lost in the flames - his face, his eyes, his expression unfathomable.

_Maybe I imagined it_, she mused. Her eyes dropped to the finger touching the outside of her right armored knee. It burned there, as if a candle was directly beside her leg. _No, I didn't imagine it_.

_Two_ of the tips of his fingers were touching her knee now.

_Three_.

Her sharp inhale was a ragged thing and every muscle in her body was clenched as she contemplated the meaning of it. He had purposefully avoided touching her ever since she met him. This touch was deliberate. He _wanted_ to touch her.

Fianna quickly looked up at him to find him staring down at her. Keenly. Unwavering. The entirety of his attention was focused on her, his eyes deep and penetrating. She found it difficult to breath as he watched her, intently, like a bird of prey. His predatory assessment unnerved her, though she refused to show it.

She stared back at his implacable features and the air around them suddenly became thick and heavy with unseen tension, almost as if millions of tiny electrical currents had suddenly ignited all around them.

Unsettled, she looked back down to the very masculine fingers touching her. She stared down at them, but they didn't move as she thought they would. She bit the inside of her cheek, refusing to give into the temptation to look at him again. But gods, that hard face was like a lodestone and, against her will, her eyes returned to it.

Green eyes lifted to meet the concentrated stare of dark grey that was still on her, searing into her, the intensity there more devastating than it had been moments before. Her heart battered her ribs, rattling her composure. Sweet Mara, his eyes felt like they were fingers, running over every inch of her.

Wolf's muscles tensed as he swallowed, his strong throat working, the firelight slashing across his sharply chiseled features as he stared unblinking at her and she did her best to ignore the way his breathing had changed - becoming faster, deeper.

Something inscrutable passed in his eyes before his fingertips moved slightly, the lightest of caresses on the outside of her knee.

Fianna exhaled a shuttering breath. Her heart felt as if it would leap right out of her chest. She remained motionless as his fingertips began to stroke her leg, the dark glint in his eyes mesmerizing her into paralysis.

Heat spread through her belly as his fingers trailed up the side of her outer thigh, over her hip, to curl around her waist. She heard a shallow panting and realized it was the sound of her own breathing.

His grip tightened on her waist and he pulled her closer, dragging her to him across the fur pallet, his arm molding her to his length. His gaze delved into hers, searching and reading.

Fianna could hardly breathe behind the mask covering her lips. He radiated a vital intensity that made her, the Dragonborn of all people, feel fragile and acutely feminine. She knew she should pull away, yet an unnamable something held her transfixed, her heart a fluttering mess.

_Breathe. Just breathe_.

His hand slowly trailed all the way up her side until he was cupping the back of her neck. Her heart beat painfully within her chest like molten rock as he inhaled a shaky breath while staring at her mask, right where her mouth was.

His fingers were warm and strong and firm as they tightened on the nape of her neck and then he was pulling her toward him, dragging her inexorably, relentlessly closer to him, his smoky gaze never leaving her face as he drew her to him.

Fianna laid her palm on his chest. The bunched muscle beneath her hand felt rock-hard, like stone, but the rapid beating of his heart told her he was very much alive in there, despite what she'd initially thought. Drawn by an urge more powerful than reason, Fianna tilted her chin up, an unconscious invitation that caused his eyes to darken to thunderclouds.

A burst of heat and anticipation started in her stomach and coiled outward as his lips descended, closer, until their mouths where almost touching. Wolf hesitated for just a moment, a ragged breath filtering unsteadily out against her mouth, before he brought her across the last scant inches separating them.

Wolf's bottom lip just barely brushed her masked upper lip and a fever broke out along her skin, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake. Electricity crackled around them as he tightened his fingers behind her neck and pressed his mouth more firmly against hers. Her body trembled as his hot breath and warm lips seeped through the cloth on her face and bathed her lips and skin in heat.

Wolf's lips abruptly left hers, but instead of disengaging and moving away, his lips hovered above hers. Their noses brushed against each other as he exhaled sharp bursts of air over her masked lips and she inhaled, taking his breath deep into her lungs.

For just a moment she wondered what she was doing, but seemed incapable of stopping herself. She wanted that kiss again. Craved it. Needed it. And she took it.

Fianna lifted her chin and softly caught his bottom lip between her cloth-covered lips. Goosebumps erupted all over her arms and neck, and a warmth like no other before began to gather at the pit of her stomach before slowly spreading out to her limbs in a trail of fire. She lingered there for a moment before she pulled away ever so slightly, brushed her mouth against his and captured his upper lip. Beneath her hand, his heart thundered so hard it seemed to be in rhythm with her own.

His grip tightened on her nape as he slanted his lips over hers, his other arm gathering her even closer against him. He inhaled, stealing her breath. She breathed into him, giving him more. He brought her cloth-covered bottom lip between his teeth and bit down gently.

A tiny whimper of pleasure glided unbidden from her throat before she could hold it in. But the coil of desire that shot right to her very center was undeniable, uncontainable. The immediate, almost visceral reaction to him had left her breathless.

Only one other man had ever had such an impact on her.

Her heart dropped into the pit of her stomach as that thought settled in her mind. Suddenly, panic and a nameless fear spread over her with a frightening chill that turned her bones brittle. The ground suddenly seemed to be shifting out from under her. Terrified jade orbs squeezed shut as she flattened her other palm on his broad chest and gave a light push.

Wolf's lips immediately broke from hers, but hovered on top of hers, only the black cloth mask separating them. After a few unsteady heartbeats, he pulled back slightly to look at her and her hands trailed off his chest. Fianna studied his bearded face, watched his eyes blink open, almost as if he were stunned.

A tight band encircled her chest at that look and she had to avert her gaze, unable to look at it. "I can't."

His hand snaked between them. His thumb and forefinger held her cloth-covered chin, turning her face back to his. His face was set like stone, giving away nothing, but his eyes were a dark slate gray, as turbulent as a storm-swept sky. He said nothing, but she could see the question there.

"I can't," she repeated more for herself than for him, for self-preservation, the green of her eyes dulled and darkened with shadows of her own.

On his leg, Wolf's free hand curled into a fist. Though his expression remained virtually unreadable, his eyes went from a sheer grey intensity to icy cold so fast she shivered. He didn't move, but all at once he was far too close, looming over her. The fingers on her chin tightened, pinching into her skin, as he stared at her as if she were a threat of some kind.

Wolf rose abruptly and moved swiftly out the mouth of the cave and into the storm that was dying down outside, much like he did the last time she touched him.

Fianna's shoulders sank and her head fell into her hands. That had been a mistake. A horrible mistake. She wanted to melt into the ground. Why did she do that? Why did she allow that? She couldn't think of the reason now. She sat on the floor berating herself for her foolishness. She was embarrassed by what she'd done, by what she'd allowed him to do.

Fianna called herself every name she could think of. How could this have happened? She was just supposed to heal him and get rid of him. She'd been lonely and had responded spontaneously to a man she was attracted to. But he was a Blade! And not just any Blade, but the Commander of the Blades! If he saw her face he would recognize her immediately and then it would all be over. If she got too close to him, it could ruin everything! Talos, how could something like this have happened?

One thing was for sure - she and Drake were leaving first thing in the morning, storm or no storm.

And they couldn't get away fast enough.

**Author's Note**: The physical exercises that Fianna and Drake perform each morning are a form of yoga or pilates. Also, if you didn't notice, some of the things Wolf says to Drake while they are practicing with their swords are said in the game by Teldryn Sero. I just liked them so much I wanted to include them. Oh, and this chapter has a soundtrack: _Still Here (Acoustic Version) _by Digital Daggers. You can hear the whole song for free on YouTube.


	6. Chapter 6 - The Rift

**The Boy With The Crimson Eyes**

**Chapter 6 – The Rift**

_I think of you_

_I haven't slept_

_I think I do_

_But, I don't forget_

_My body moves_

_Goes where I will_

_But though I try, my heart stays still_

_It never moves_

_Just won't be led_

_And so my mouth waters, to be fed_

_And you're always in my head_

_- Always In My Head by Coldplay_

At the Windpeak Inn in the small town of Dawnstar, Wolf sat on a bar stool brooding with a tankard of whiskey in his hand, the almost empty bottle on the bar top beside him. The storm had stopped and he'd climbed down the mountain in desperate need of space… and alcohol. His split lip and swollen cheek bore mute evidence of the fight he'd gotten into with the local faction the moment he'd walked into the town. Fools. They'd known who he was, yet attacked him anyway.

Behind the bar, the pretty tavern wench with the short red curls picked up the bottle of whiskey and refilled his tankard. She gave him a saucy wink before tending to another patron. The wench had been nice enough to find him some clothes – dark trousers, a leather jerkin he wore over a woolen tunic with sleeves, a heavy black mantle lined with fur, and leather boots. He was also armed, after having taken a number of daggers and a sword off of the now dead faction members that had attacked him and lied dead in the snow.

It was approaching two in the morning and the patrons of the inn began to head drunkenly home for the night or stumble up the stairs to their rented rooms. Wolf, however, continued to stare sullenly into his tankard, his onyx hair hanging like a dark curtain around his face. He was oblivious to everything around him as he contemplated the distressing situation he'd gotten himself into.

Six years ago, he'd crawled into a dark pit of anger and despair to cauterize his wounds and heal the ragged wound that was his soul. In truth, he hadn't been able to survive her leaving. Vilkas had truly died that day, but like a phoenix rising from the ashes, Wolf was born. He'd cut all tenderness and mercy from his heart, to make damn sure no one ever made a fool of him again like she did. He'd closed himself off completely from every human feeling, and distanced himself from the world and the people in it. He'd spent his days unleashing his anger in the form of violence on his enemies, fighting for a cause that he believed in and that brought purpose and meaning to his otherwise empty existence, all the while trying to eradicate the memory of the woman who'd once broken him.

He no longer trusted women, and only took them to bed when the need was strong. Otherwise, he shunned them. Yet this one… Fianna… she intrigued him in an elemental yet unexpected way. There was something about her - he had no idea what – that evoked disturbing emotions within him. The interest he held for her was one he hadn't known in a long, long time. The draw to her was not purely sexual, although that was a good deal of it. There was no denying he felt a strong attraction to her. But his desire went deeper then mere lust, which needled him. He sensed she could fulfill him in some unimagined way, could bring brightness and warmth to his life, which had been barren of both for six long years.

Wolf's shadowed eyes were half-lidded as memories of last night floated through his inebriated mind, stirring his blood.

He couldn't figure out why it had such an effect on him. He hadn't even kissed her lips, just that damn mask she wore. And yet, he couldn't stop thinking about that kiss. About how she felt. How she responded. How she'd leaned into him willingly…

But it was his own response that rankled him. His heart had hammered beneath her small palm, his blood had rushed through his veins, his breath had been unsteady, and every molecule of his being had been buzzing and hot. He'd felt a stir of hunger awaken in him, the likes of which he hadn't felt in such a long time. He'd felt fervent, anxious, aware, and awake. _Alive_, for the first time in years. She'd caused a sliver of something real and raw to curl inside the cold recesses of his heart.

He didn't like it, didn't trust it.

Yet, despite his best efforts, that kiss kept replaying itself over and over in his mind – every damned second of it.

Dammit, he'd momentarily lost his mind last night. Why had he kissed her? He'd known better, yet he'd kissed her anyway. She was married with a kid! What the hell had he been thinking? Fianna was the wrong woman to want, but gods help him, he wanted her all the same. He hadn't wanted a woman so badly in a very long time.

Six years, eight months, and five days to be exact.

His head came up at that, his dark brows deeply creased. It was then that he realized Fianna was the first woman he'd kissed since Faye. That made him angry for some reason, which confused him even more than he already was.

His head hung heavy on his shoulders that were hunched over the bar top. Shor's blood, he didn't need this now. What he needed was a distraction. Women fell into his bed. He could find one now, relieve his sexual frustration and at the same time destroy these unwanted feelings that were gnawing at him while also mending his vanity that had been pricked by Fianna's rejection of him. Accustomed to being pursued by women, he had limited experience with rejection.

It mattered not, for in the morning he would return to the cave for his armor before returning to the Blades keep. Wolf lifted his tankard and tossed his head back, downing the last of the liquid before slamming it down on the bar top. His head instantly began to throb and protested fiercely to the physical movement as everything began to blur and spin from the effects of the alcohol.

Wolf's eyes closed and his fingers tightened on the tankard in his hand as Fianna's eyes appeared unbidden in his mind's eye. They were crinkled in the corners with laughter as a sweet feminine laugh mixed with the innocent giggles of a child echoed in his head, pulling tight on something within him.

"So, you're the Wolf of the Blades," purred a feminine voice in his ear.

Wolf opened his eyes, glaring, to see who dared bother him.

A long leg swung in front of him and a warm body slid between him and the bar top he was leaning against, forcing him to sit back on the bar stool he was perched on. His eyes fell to the bare legs that went on for days straddling his lap. His eyes moved up to a green tavern wench top that had enough buttons undone at the top to make it abundantly clear that there was nothing but female under the cloth. Up even further were full lips painted red, a short-cropped cap of artlessly tumbled auburn curls, a saucy smile, and a pair of caramel brown eyes that were heavily lined with coal.

All in all, this tavern wench was just his type: Nordic, stunningly gorgeous, seemingly easy, and not expecting more than one night.

"Aye. And who are you?" Wolf slurred, his breath heavy with the stench of alcohol. He squinted against the brightness coming from the fire in the center of the room, struggling to focus on the redhead, as the room seemed to spin.

"Sonya," the redhead said in a low, sultry voice as her fingertips traced aimlessly along the back of his neck.

Wolf nodded, uncaring, not really hearing her. He reached around her and brought the bottle of whiskey that was resting on the bar top to his lips. The redhead ducked her head quickly to avoid getting hit with the bottle.

The honey colored mixture swirled and glittered pleasantly in the dim light as he swilled the contents of the bottle. The sweet liquid burned his throat delightfully as it went down. It was smooth and smoky with a hint of heat. Wanting more, Wolf lifted the bottle again and took a heavy swallow.

"I've heard about you," the redhead murmured flirtatiously, batting her eyelashes. "One glance at you and I knew who you were. Your name is on everybody's lips in Skyrim."

Wolf answered with his usual, "Mm." It was a non-committal sound used to fool the conversationalist into thinking he was actually paying attention. He had to admit, he liked the result. They usually gave up and left him alone, but this tavern wench was proving to be harder to shake as she ran both of her hands through his long black hair till she reached his shoulder blades then returned to aimlessly trace her fingers along his nape.

"Your reputation is fierce. They say your strength is unmatched. They even say you might be _king_ someday," she whispered in his ear emphasizing heavily on the second to last word.

Wolf frowned. He was about to push her off of him when he suddenly felt her warm lips on his ear. "How about we go somewhere more… private so that we can get to know each other better?" she murmured in a husky voice before nibbling his earlobe.

"What makes you think I want to get to know you better?" Wolf scowled, his words heavily slurred.

The tavern wench pulled back slightly, her caramel brown eyes meeting my dark-grey ones, and stuck out her bottom lip in an attractive pout. She moved in for a kiss and Wolf sank his free hand firmly into her short auburn curls, holding her head, preventing her from coming any closer. He impassively watched her expression as she slowly moved her lips to his neck.

_She'll be good for a night_, Wolf thought unemotionally. _She'll be a good distraction_.

As her mouth moved over his neck, Wolf thought it over in his mind whether he wanted the redhead for the night or not. Still debating, the redhead shifted in his lap, moving in for another kiss. Abruptly, Wolf pulled back, his mind decided. She wasn't the one he wanted.

"Tonya. Why don't you make yourself useful and go get me another bottle," Wolf grumbled as he shoved her callously off of him.

The tavern wench stumbled slightly, but once she caught her balance she turned to him trying to hide her vexation. "It's _Sonya_. And, ugh, sure… let me just, uhh, get that for you, sugar," she said with forced sweetness as she mustered up a weak smile.

Wolf waved her off dismissively with one hand as he turned his attention back to the almost empty bottle of alcohol in his hand. The Nord lifted the bottle and took a hefty swallow, finishing the bottle off. The room grew warmer, more inviting as the whiskey gripped his senses. His head was spinning and his temples were thumping painfully against his skull.

"Here's your bottle," the redhead said, handing it to him. She flashed him a wicked grin as her hands ran provocatively down her supple, scantly clothed body. "Are you sure you don't want to…?"

His eyes cut to her. "I do not require a whore for the night," Wolf grumbled harshly with a forbidding glare. "Why don't you run off and spread your legs for someone that will actually have you?"

The wench's smile fell and her brown eyes tightened in indignation. "You're a cruel, heartless bastard," she hissed before she turned sharply and sauntered away.

Uncaring, Wolf turned his attention back to the alcohol in his hand. "I know," he grumbled drunkenly as he lifted the new bottle to his lips, the weight of it surprising him. He took a long pull on it. The room began to spin more quickly and he found himself having difficulty holding his head upright. He fought to remain conscious, but the whiskey forced his mind and eyes to close and shut out the world.

Just the way he liked it.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Fianna tossed and turned on her fur pallet, her mind filled with nothing but that kiss. Gods help her, she couldn't stop it from repeating over and over in her head, no matter how hard to tried to think of something else, anything else.

The kiss had been a mistake. So was this attraction she had for Wolf. She couldn't have anything to do with a Blade. Not only that, but Wolf himself was a difficult man, a complex one, and she wasn't sure he even had the capacity to feel something as tender an emotion as affection for another human being. That was not the kind of man she wanted to be kissing. That was not the kind of man she wanted around her son. She'd lost her head, wasn't thinking. For a moment she'd forgotten who he was, who she was, the life she'd chosen.

She looked down at her hands and fidgeted with the wedding ring on her finger that seemed to burn into her skin like guilt. She twisted the simple gold band round and round.

The kiss had been a mistake. A big mistake.

Heavy thoughts plagued her until dawn when Wolf returned to the cave. He spoke not a word, his features strained and drawn. She noticed he wore different clothes and when she asked him where he'd gone, he ignored her, going straight to his pile of armor and quickly donning each piece. His manner was withdrawn, unwelcoming, and that look he sometimes had of being far away had taken control of his face. Only this time, he was even more distant, utterly indifferent and horribly cold. Whatever chink in the armor he kept around him had been exposed last night, was lost.

She couldn't help feeling disappointed.

While Drake slept, one hand curled around Meeko's neck and the other clutching the little wooden sword Wolf had made him, Fianna rose quietly from the fur pallet and put on her black cloak over her Dark Brotherhood armor before heading outside the cave.

The storm was over. The sun was shining through a blue sky on dazzling snow that stretched into infinity before her. Her arms wrapped around herself for warmth from the winter chill in the air but the low sun had begun to warm the land.

While she stood watching the sunrise the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She turned to find Wolf standing in the mouth of the cave fully dressed in full ebony Blades armor and a black wool mantle. He had an unreadable look on his face while he stared at her - his eyes dark and fathomless – hiding the thoughts behind them. Her face flushed as she realized she had no idea how long he'd been standing there behind her.

Unease scratched at the edges of her consciousness as he continued to remain silently staring at her, unblinking. Her lips parted beneath her mask, but no words came out as those black-grey orbs continued to drill into her. The moment stretched on, the silence disconcerting, the tension becoming almost unbearable.

A winter wind swept passed them, ruffling his long black hair and her cloak. Her body stiffened as she caught the scent of alcohol and cheap perfume on the wind. She wondered if he'd spent all night with some woman in Dawnstar. It didn't matter, she told herself. She didn't care who he slept with, as long as it wasn't her. She didn't even like the man.

Her chin lifted sharply with that thought in mind. "Since the storm has passed, Drake and I will be leaving," she said into the pulsing silence.

She watched his eyes grow stormy grey and a muscle moved up and down in his jaw, as if he were chewing on something hard and distasteful.

He continued to stand obstinately mute and the silence unsettled her nerves, rubbing them raw, doing nothing to diminish his presence, which seemed to be pressing in on her. "I will prepare a pack for your trip home," Fianna offered graciously, breaking the silence. "I'll pack you some food and water as well as health potions, medicinal herbs, and bandages. I don't have much money, but what I have is yours if you need it."

Disturbed by a breeze, the pines murmured as he continued to study her with that impenetrable gaze. "Where will you go?" His ruined voice scraped like glass shards across gravel.

"Riften," she answered honestly. "I'm late meeting someone there."

His face, his eyes, his expression were unfathomable, giving nothing away as he said firmly, "I will escort you."

Her gaze darted away. "You needn't concern yourself with us."

"I will escort you," he repeated inflexibly, brooking no argument.

Her gaze slowly returned to his. "Why?"

His countenance turned dark and grim. "You said the boy's father was searching for you, intending to cause you and your son harm." She swallowed as his hard gaze penetrated her. "I will make sure you and your son get to Riften unharmed."

Fianna shifted her weight awkwardly in the snow. It was honorable of him to see to their protection and safety when he had no obligation to. She brought her bottom lip between her teeth as she thought on his offer.

"Alright," she said with uncertainty after a long pause, looking into his inscrutable eyes. When he said nothing, Fianna straightened and moved toward the cave.

Wolf's gauntleted hand caught her wrist before she could pass him. The moment he touched her, she felt a charge of electricity arch between them with the contact, jolting her with an abrupt shock.

Fianna felt his gaze on her, felt the heat of it, burning away every layer of clothing until she felt raw and exposed. With her heart knocking against her chest wall, she turned her head to the side and she slowly lifted her eyes to his and was instantly arrested by the broody orbs that held her as he stood huge and imposing over her.

"Last night was a mistake." His damaged voice was sharp and brittle, the frigid intensity in his eyes piercing into her like icicles.

"I know," she replied quietly, hoping the catch in her voice wouldn't betray her, her wrist burning like a ring of fire were his fingers curled around it like a manacle.

His features were stony and forbidding, giving no hint of emotion or warmth. "I don't want or need a woman and a kid in my life." His grip tightened on her wrist. "I don't want or need anyone in my life."

"We won't be any trouble for you," she stated evenly, the lines of her jaw tense with the effort to appear calm, unaffected.

The air pulsed with a current of energy as he looked at her with a strange expression, his eyes overcast and unreadable. "I'll go get the horses."

Wolf released her and she took a long slow breath to steady herself as she watched him stride away, his long dark hair and infamous ebony armor stamping him with a sinister air, the silhouette of his tall form against the snow like a darkly forbidding apparition from some stygian gloom. He suddenly looked the beast he was named after as he stalked across the snow-covered earth – predatory, dangerous, menacing. An unnerving shiver fluttered down her spine as her eyes followed his ominous figure.

Fianna returned to the cave to find Drake wide-awake and swinging his little wooden sword around, practicing.

"We're leaving, sparrow."

He stopped mid-swing and stared at her aghast, "What?!"

"It's time for us to continue on our way."

"But… but what about Wolf?" the boy stammered, his green eyes glistening from the wetness in them.

Fianna cringed at the disappointment in his voice and at the tears in his eyes. "Wolf must return to his life with the Blades."

His gaze turned bright and anticipative. "Can we go with him?"

"No," she answered gently. "You know we can't."

The hope that had flickered brightly in his eyes quickly waned. His little chin began to tremble. "But… but he's my friend," came the sadly whispered reply.

Drake began to cry softly, large round tears rolling down his cheeks, and the sight of it cut at Fianna's heart. "Oh, my little sparrow," she whispered, the sympathetic smile she gave him concealed behind her mask. She moved to him and knelt on the ground before him, trying to catch his eyes. "You will make other friends."

"N-No… I… w-won't…" he sniffled with his head bowed, his coal hair falling into his evergreen eyes as he stared glumly down at the wooden sword in his hand.

Her heart clenched at his words and at that look of melancholy. Fianna fell back to sit on the ground and pulled her son onto her lap, cradling his back, her arms wrapping protectively around his small body. "You will," she whispered assuredly into his ear. "You are the sweetest, kindest, bravest, strongest boy I know. Anyone would be luck to call you friend."

"Re… really…?" he hiccupped, his eyes and nose running.

She nodded before pressing her cloth-covered lips to his temple. "We'll have a real home one day, little sparrow. Some little place in the country where we will be free. And all your friends will be there. Meeko will be there and so will Brynjolf. And you know Vex, Delvin, Tonilia, and Karliah will visit all the time, along with the others."

"You promise, mommy?" he asked in a high voice as he wiped his wet eyes and running nose with his sleeves. "We'll have a real home one day?"

"Of course we will," she stated with conviction. "Soon. Very soon."

Fianna felt Drake's little body tense suddenly in her arms.

"Drake?" she asked gently.

When no reply came, Fianna called her son's name but again no reply came. Concerned, Fianna leaned forward to peer at her son's face. "Drake?"

Drake remained silent. He had gone very still, his green eyes blank and staring off into space. Her face paled. She knew that look.

"Drake," she said firmly, her voice lined with steel, though her stomach rolled with fear.

Drake finally came out of his daze and lifted his head and gave her an apologetic smile. "Sorry, mommy."

Fianna was about to scold him when he winced and lifted his little hand to his chest and tenderly rubbed the skin over his heart.

She blanched, dread and apprehension flooding her. "Does it hurt?"

He nodded, his little face pinched and grimacing.

"How long?" she asked urgently.

He shrugged his little shoulders, not looking at her. "A while."

Her heart stopped beating in her chest. "How much longer until it's gone?"

He shrugged again, his cheeks turning pink, his eyes refusing to meet hers. "I don't know." His eyes flickered to hers briefly. "Soon."

Fianna exhaled heavily, her stomach twisting into uneasy knots as she lifted her eyes to the hundreds of stalactites descending from the ceiling of the cave. "We need to get to Riften," she stated resolutely. "We cannot wait any longer. You need your medicine."

"We're going to Riften?!" Drake's eyes brightened. "Will I get to play with Boppa?!" he cried with elation.

Fianna laughed. When Drake had been a baby he hadn't been able to say "Brynjolf" and instead call the Guild Master "Boppa." The name stuck.

She smiled and ruffled his messy mop of jet-black hair. "Of course you will. Brynjolf is waiting for us. He said he had a gift for you."

"A gift! For me?!" Drake cried with excitement. "What is it?! What is it?!"

"I don't know. We'll have to wait and see." A thought came to her and she gave him a little squeeze. "Hey, how about I make you some popped corn for the trip? How does that sound?"

"Yeah!" Drake cried with glee as he got to his feet and began practicing the moves Wolf had taught him.

Fianna got to her feet as well and dug through one of her packs for a small bag of corn kernels. She put the kernels of corn in a covered metal pan and set the pan over the fire. Seconds later, Drake ran over to her, squealing with delight, his brilliant green eyes widening and brightening with unbridled glee as the kernels cracked open with a sharp crackling noise, busting open in the pan. After a few minutes, Fianna used a rag to remove the pan from the fire. She poured most of the popped corn into a bag for the trip and the rest into a small bowl and handed it to Drake. He took it from her with a thank you and a kiss on her lips.

While Drake ate his popped corn, Fianna began packing up their belongings. While she stuffed a few of Drake's shirts into a pack, the little boy cocked his head to the side and asked, "Mommy…?"

"Yes, little sparrow?" Fianna replied absently as she picked up a plate off the floor.

"What does croí daor mean?"

_Crash__!_

The plate in her hand fell to the floor and shattered.

Drake's jaw dropped. Wide-eyed, the little boy looked up at his mom, who had tears in her eyes. A fist was pressed tight against her heart and her eyes held pain, so much pain, like an image out of a nightmare.

"M-Mommy…?" Drake's little voice shook. He was scared.

"How… how do you… where did you hear that?" she asked breathlessly, her eyes fixed on the shattered plate on the ground.

Not sure what the right answer was, Drake muttered, "I don't know."

She continued to stand immobile, staring down at the ground, lost in a memory that seemed to bring even more pain into her eyes.

"M-Mommy… a-are you okay?"

A second later, Fianna looked dazed, as she seemed to mentally shake herself out of the memory. She looked down at Drake and smiled a very sad, wobbly smile behind her mask, her eyes glistening in the light of the dying fire. "It means-"

Meeko began barking madly as a bat flew over their heads. Drake screamed in terror and began swinging his little wooden sword wildly over his head. Fianna found the bat and with a flick of her wrist sent a Firebolt flying across the cave. The bat screeched as it caught fire and fell to the cave floor. Drake smiled up at her and she smiled down at him.

For the rest of the morning, Fianna and Drake packed, something they had perfected to an art. They placed the plates, cups, and utensils and other items in a large coffer. Fianna locked the coffer and hid it in the back of the cave alongside the kettle and buckets. She then cast a preservation spell over them for when they returned. She then left a Shadowmark on the wall.

It was then that Wolf returned from the Dawnstar stable with his horse and Fianna's. Together, Fianna and Wolf began working to transfer her packs and other belongings from the cave to her horse. The snow had formed a crust over which they could easily walk. The air was crisp and cold as they worked. Wolf remained silent and terrifyingly remote while Fianna maintained a studied indifference that took its toll on her willpower since her awareness of him had seeped into her senses and pooled low in her body. With each trip they made, the air around them seemed to thicken with the things they had said and could not say.

On their last trip, Fianna's foot caught on a root hidden beneath the snow and she stumbled sideways, losing her footing and falling into Wolf. His reflexes were quick and he dropped the packs he was carrying to catch her by her upper arms, steadying her. She felt an immediate tension in him, one that was reflected in herself, but incomprehensibly he didn't release her and she didn't step away.

The wind was a gentle soughing around them. For an endless moment they stood in the snow, unmoving. Fianna could do nothing but stare at his broad armored chest, her pulse escalating, aware of a slow heat that filled every pore on her skin.

Fianna swallowed hard before pulling back slightly. Her eyes dragged slowly up his large muscular torso to his face. Her breath hitched as she saw Wolf's breath drawing harshly between his teeth and when she caught a flare of something in his eyes, she knew he wasn't as indifferent as he pretended.

She tried to free herself, but he held her closer still. His face only inches away, the air immediately shifted, becoming strained and electric. Unnerving panic and anticipation seemed to crackle over her skin, making it hum in reaction to the way his predatory eyes ate her up, consumed her.

His gaze fell to her mask-covered lips, his face holding the intense look of a hunting beast as his breathing became faster, deeper. The dark hunger that filled his eyes stirred a strange pleasurable spark that flickered along the ends of her nerves.

Involuntarily, her chin lifted in silent invitation.

His nostrils flared slightly, and heat flamed in her belly, filled her chest, spread up her neck and into her cheeks. She willed him to kiss her again. Right now. Before either of them realized how foolish and dangerous that would be.

Wolf's head bent and he leaned into her, his fingers tightening on her upper arms, his eyes never leaving her mask and her heart hammered in her chest as he drew closer. A tremor shook her as she stared up at him, eyes wide, her breath escaping in a thin stream from between her parted lips to bloom in a white mist in front of her face.

His hot breath fanned across her masked mouth as his lips almost met hers. But the moment before they touched, she heard him draw in a sharp breath and his fingers dug painfully into her arms. Hardened granite eyes flew up to hers and narrowed severely, his mouth twisting savagely.

With an explosive curse, he shoved her away from him, and she fell backward, falling down hard in the snow. Wide-eyed she stared up at him. Wolf's body was taut, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, his chest rising and falling with his ragged breaths, his eyes blazing with something hot and hard and dangerous.

Shaken by his fierce anger, Fianna pressed a hand to her chest, trying to calm the frantic rhythm of her heart. Wolf looked away from her, completely shielding any expression, and swiftly collected the packs he'd dropped and continued towards the horses, as if he couldn't get away from her fast enough.

Fianna looked away from his retreating back to stare numbly at the snow that covered her, dumbfounded by her response to him. She didn't react this way to men and she certainly shouldn't be reacting this way to _this_ man. What had become of her common sense? What had become of her control? But it seemed every time Wolf lowered his barriers, every time she stepped beyond hers, it became harder and harder to resist him. Talos, she couldn't afford to connect with him. She couldn't afford to connect with anyone.

Cursing herself, Fianna stood and brushed the snow off of her before retrieving the last of her packs from the cave and carrying them to her horse. All packed and ready to head out, Fianna returned to the cave and grabbed a wolf skin and wrapped it around Drake's shoulders before taking his hand and leading him to their horse.

Drake petted and cooed over the snow-white palfrey that he'd named Snowball. The horse nickered and snorted before nudging Drake's hand causing the boy to giggle. Fianna reached down to scratch behind Meeko's ear as he came to stand beside her, his tail wagging. Fianna ran a gloved hand over the mare's creamy mane while Snowball ate the carrot out of her gloved palm.

Her body suddenly stiffened as she heard Wolf approach. She felt him come up behind her and her skin prickled with awareness. She felt her heart give a stutter when his hands came to rest on her hips. Her breathing stopped all together when she felt his tall body brush against hers from behind. His hands tightened and a startled gasp caught in her throat as he lifted her effortlessly onto the mare before lifting Drake up under his armpits and handing him to her.

Her cheeks roasting, Fianna stared after him, stunned, as he moved coolly to his black stallion, seemingly unaffected while her nerves remained shaken. Wolf slipped a bridle over the head of his black steed and, throwing the reins over his neck, seized a handful of mane and vaulted to his back. He looked supremely powerful and totally ruthless just now, she thought, arrayed in full Blade armor and his black wool mantle, mounted on his black war stallion. His strong jaw suggested relentless determination, and he stared straight ahead, as if he were ruler of all he surveyed.

Realizing she was staring, Fianna ducked her head and adjusted Drake on her lap. Drake beamed up at her. "Mommy, can I hold the reins?!"

"Of course, sparrow."

"Yippee!"

Without uttering a word, Wolf led his stallion down the mountainside. Fianna didn't know if he was guiding them or walking away. She nudged her horse forward with her heels, following him, while Drake steered.

They travelled at a leisurely pace, stopping every now and then so Drake could explore some area he found interesting with Meeko and stretch his legs. They stopped to make camp when it grew too dark to travel. Five days later and they were traveling through the Rift, approaching the Blades Fortress in the Fall Forest located between Sunguard and Riften. Soon Wolf would leave them to return to his life as Commander of the Blades and they would continue on to Riften, most likely never to see him ever again. Fianna found herself reluctant to say goodbye, knowing it would be for forever.

Fianna shifted in her saddle, trying to get comfortable as she drew in the scent of the trees and the earth around her while the sounds of crickets and a nearby babbling brook sounded pleasantly in her ears. She turned her head to watch the sun that was just beginning to set, painting the sky in vibrant colors of orange and purple, the last rays of the sinking sun slanting across the top of the hills painting the landscape with bronzed heat as the Treva River snaked sapphire blue through the Rift.

Fianna pulled Drake closer to her, cradling his back, her arms tightening around his small body. "There is nothing like a Skyrim sunset, little sparrow," she murmured softly in his ear. "Stop whenever you can and enjoy it. Then thank the gods for something so beautiful."

"Okay, mommy," Drake murmured sleepily, his eyes drifting shut with exhaustion and he was soon lulled to sleep by the swaying of the animal's movements beneath him.

Feeling Wolf's gaze on her, Fianna turned her head to find the Nord warrior riding beside her looking at her strangely, his eyes holding a peculiar gleam in their slate-grey depths.

"I spoke with the townsfolk in Dawnstar about the dragon attack three weeks ago," Wolf said quietly so as not to wake Drake.

Fianna's body instinctively stiffened at his words, which she quickly tried to hide. She forced herself to respond evenly, "Oh?"

"That was my purpose in traveling to Dawnstar - to investigate the attack," he supplied, his eyes watching her closely.

She fixed a deliberately cool expression on her face as she met his scrutinizing gaze. "I assumed as much."

"They said they saw a woman matching your description in the woods at the base of the mountain, a dragon being resurrected right in front of her."

Fianna felt the strings of panic and trepidation pulling at her as his grey eyes seemed to look within her inner soul and try to search out the secrets hidden there. With sheer willpower she forced no emotion to show on her face and answered calmly, "Are you accusing me of resurrecting dragons, Wolf?"

His probing gaze refused to release her. "I'm asking you what happened."

She tore her gaze from his and stared straight ahead. "I was in the woods collecting firewood. A dragon came to life right out of the ground in front of me. It flew away and attacked the town."

"Did you see someone?"

"No. But it was dark." Her eyes flickered to his for only a second. "I know I should have helped the town. But Drake was in the cave. I ran as fast as I could to protect him."

Wolf nodded, but continued to stare at her, his gaze still searching, as if he was waiting for her to say more.

"How are dragons being resurrected?" she asked. "I thought the Dragonborn killed Alduin?"

His face was carved from stone, his lips flat and tight. "The Dragonborn destroyed Alduin's physical form, but not his soul."

Her head tilted to the side. "How is that possible?"

His chin tucked, grey orbs hardening to granite. "We believe something or someone absorbed Alduin's soul and is now resurrecting dragons to continue Alduin's work."

"And what is that?"

"World annihilation." One of Wolf's dark eyebrows lifted in a cynical arc. "He's not called the World-Eater for nothing."

Fianna looked away from him with a grimace, guilt shredding her insides.

"Do not worry," Wolf supplied casually after seeing her troubled reaction to his words. "I am tasked to find the creature that absorbed Alduin's soul and destroy it. Such an abomination cannot be allowed to exist."

"I would think such a task would be the Dragonborn's?" she asked tightly.

His top lip curled. "The Dragonborn has abandoned Skyrim. She cares not for our plight, only for herself." His eyes glittered with a sardonic light as they met hers. "Do not put your hope in the Dragonborn, Fianna, for she will bring you nothing but disappointment. I, however, will not hide like a coward while my home is threatened and my people are burned by dragon fire," his guttural voice was hard and bitter and brimming with icy contempt. "I have the ability to destroy Alduin once and for all, and I will be damned sure to succeed where the Dragonborn failed, or die trying."

Though he didn't know it, his words cut into her like knives. Fianna swallowed the heavy emotions that threatened to choke her down like a piece of broken glass. "You take on a heavy burden."

An ominous scowl darkened his sharply cut features as he searched her concealed face with penetrating grey eyes. "I'd take on anything to protect what is mine."

Trotting along side her horse, Meeko began to growl, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. A noise from very close made her jump, startling the horse she rode. Her senses were raw. Open. Straining. She felt the movement of the air over her head like a caress on her cheek, like a finger drawn down her spine.

"What was that?" she whispered urgently.

Wolf's body was tensed on his black stallion, ready for attack, his eyes searching the open field that surrounded them as they continued to ride forward on their mounts.

Another noise from behind made her look over her shoulder. "Do you hear that?"

Wolf gave one sharp nod before flinging his black wool mantle back over his shoulder, freeing his best sword arm and the hilt of his weapon.

There it was again, a disturbance in the air, like a sigh from the air above her. A brush. A rush. A shadow. Something flew over her head, so close that it blew the hood of her cloak back to reveal her Dark Brotherhood cowl that covered her hair. There was a flap of wings, swooping, soaring, falling faster than leaves blown in the wind.

Fianna's heart jolted. Her eyes popped open. Her head snapped up. Her eyes searched the skies. Her mouth fell open behind her mask as she saw two massive, red and black-scaled torsos flying over her head.

"Dragons!" she cried in warning.

"Take the boy and hide, I will draw them from you!" Wolf ordered and, with a touch of his heels, sent his horse into a gallop, his sword in his hand.

The two dragons overhead each let loose an ear-piercing roar. Snowball reared back in fear, hooves flailing, and Fianna and Drake were both thrown from the horse. She pulled him to her and curled her body around him, protecting him, shielding his small body with her own while he screamed in terror as they fell to the ground.

Fianna's back hit the ground hard, and there was a loud crack as her skull slammed against a rock. Pain exploded behind her eyes and white-hot agony shot through her body. She groaned, seeing nothing but black dots spotting her vision, the pain in her head excruciating.

She couldn't hear Drake. She didn't feel him move in her arms. Was he hurt? Oh gods, her baby!

Fianna tried to look at Drake in her arms, held defensively to her, but her vision remained filled with nothing but little black dots. She tried to speak, to ask Drake if he was alright, but the words came out jumbled and incoherent. She tried to sit up, to check him for injuries, but her body wouldn't move.

Lying helplessly on the ground, Fianna could hear the sound of the dragons roaring and the sound of fire being breathed in the distance, but she saw nothing as her vision remained impaired. As she lay there, praying to the gods that Drake was alright, Fianna heard a Battle Cry rent the air, which smelled of fire and smoke. There was the sound of a sword slicing through the air and the following piercing scream of a dragon in pain before the coppery scent of blood traveled on the wind to her nose.

"Commander?! Is that you?!" Fianna heard a male voice yell in the distance. "We saw the fire and smoke so close to the fortress and came to investigate. Thank the gods we did. By Talos, we'd thought you'd gotten captured again by them dragon lovers. Damn glad to see you alive and in one piece, sir!"

"You three, get the woman and the child into the keep! Now!" she heard Wolf order in his guttural voice over the roar of a dragon.

"Yes, sir!" Three male voices echoed in unison.

"Watch the tail!" She heard Wolf shout in warning, but heard nothing else as panic and fear rose to choke her. Her throat closed as if a hand had locked around it. She could barely breathe as a slowly dawning horror overcame her.

_They're going to take us to the Blades fortress. _

Fianna fought the dread that threatened to rob her of her last strength.

_No! Not the keep! We can't go there! Oh gods! Anywhere but there! Oh no! No, no, no! _Fianna thought frantically, pulling Drake's limp body protectively to her before she slipped into the waiting darkness. _May the gods have mercy on us__._

**Author's Note**: This chapter has a soundtrack: _Always In My Head _by Coldplay. You can hear the whole song for free on YouTube.


	7. Chapter 7 - Reunion

**The Boy With The Crimson Eyes**

**Chapter 7 – Reunion**

_Here's some advise for the next one_

_Don't let him lead you to the dark_

_Don't tell him all your secrets_

_He'll leave you with a broken heart_

_He'll try and tell you that he wants you_

_Just to keep you on the line_

_And right when you're about to move on_

_He pulls you back in every time_

_Here's advice for the next one:_

_Run. Run. Run_

_- Run by Nicole Scherzinger_

The fortress of the Blades was imposing and ominous as it stood tall and solitary in the Fall Forest. By its size it was clear that the numbers of the Blades had become vast over the years. The massive keep was a fortified palace built in stone and mortar. Around it wrapped a tall shell wall that was surrounded by a mote. Anyone who wished to enter or leave the fortress had to await the lowering of the drawbridge, then ride through the outer and inner baileys before seeking entrance to the keep. Once within, six towers stood tall above the central courtyard, stretching toward the heavens. The main door to the keep lead to passages and chambers that were full of warmth and soldiers. Within the stronghold there was a great dining hall, multiple barracks, training rooms, assembly halls, kitchens, a blacksmith, and a large dungeon.

Wolf stood staring up at the fortress that had been his home for the past five years. Within its halls contained the only people he associated with besides the occasional letter to his twin brother Farkas, and even then he only associated with a rare few. He lived a solitary life that was centered around tracking down Alduin's soul and destroying it. He was rarely here, hating to stay in one place for too long, preferring to live life on the road, hunting down the abomination that housed the World-Eater's evil soul.

The Commander of the Blades was covered from head to toe in the black blood of the two dragons he'd just slain outside the keep. Using the last light of day, he decided to take a bath in the cold stream that ran across the grounds behind the Blades fortress. He removed his soiled armor and washed it first before getting into the icy water himself. Wolf scrubbed his body, washing the black dragon blood from his skin and hair using the hardened oil from Sandalwood.

"Well now, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?" called Benor with a broad smile.

Wolf looked up to see one of the three friends he had come walking over to him and sit on a large boulder beside the stream. The tall and broad Nord with the shoulder length dark brown hair reminded him of his twin brother with his immense strength, friendly demeanor, warm eyes, and unwavering loyalty.

Wolf looked away from Benor and dunked his head under the water. When he resurfaced, he asked casually, "How are they?"

"The woman and the kid?" Benor asked as he tossed dark pants, a leather jerkin, a woolen tunic with sleeves, a heavy black mantle lined with fur, and leather boots onto the ground beside the stream. "A little banged up, but they're alright. The kid sprained his arm and suffered a concussion, but Esbern used his healing magic to patch the kid up. The woman hit her head pretty hard, she's still out. Her armor had been torn, bloodied, and ruined so Esbern had the servant women bath her and dress her in new clothes." Benor rubbed his jaw, his expression concerned. "Although, Esbern was acting really strange after he went to see her and check her injuries."

Wolf grunted in acknowledgment as he scrubbed his broad chest, washing away the blood from the fresh wounds that adorned his torso, adding to the many scars he already had. They were scars added upon scars. Every inch of his body was covered in scars. Deep, jagged gashes from blades and daggers, small circular punctures from arrows, burns from dragon fire, whip marks from months of torture, it was all on the road map of his body. Some of the women he took to bed found the scars that covered his body ghastly, found his large warriors body that was riddled with disfigurements too gruesome to even look at. And they couldn't even see the ugliest of his scars, which were internal, buried beneath his skin, hidden from view.

Wolf's blood rushed hot as the look in Fianna's eyes when he'd removed his shirt in front of her to change his bandages came into his mind's eye. She hadn't looked at his mutilated body with revulsion. She'd looked at him with admiration and burning heat. She _liked_ a man with scars, did she? What would she think of the scars of his soul?

"So… you disappear for two weeks and return married with a kid?" Benor asked with humor.

Wolf lost his footing on the stream floor and stumbled in the water. His head snapped up and he stared at Benor in amazement, "What?"

Benor's head fell back and he exploded with laughter at Wolf's startled reaction. Wolf scowled at him until the other Nord ceased his laughter. "I take it you didn't run off to find yourself a wife and a kid?"

Wolf grunted, scowling. "I won't dignify that with an answer."

Benor played with a blade of grass. "I met the boy. Drake. He's a good kid. An intelligent one, but not a prick about it like some."

Wolf nodded absently as he continued to bath, seemingly bored and unaffected by the line of conversation, but those who knew him knew it was just part of his armor he kept around him.

"Now, the woman…" Benor continued with a nod of his head towards the fortress behind them, his dark brown eyes still gleaming with mirth. "How did you meet her?"

Wolf's expression was unreadable, his voice flat as he answered, "The dragon cultists ambushed me when I went to investigate in Dawnstar alone. I was poisoned by Hevnoraak's dagger. I fell on the battlefield." His eyes lifted to meet Benor's, their slate-grey depths inscrutable. "She found me and brought me back from the brink of death."

"That was nice of her. I like a woman with a kind and gracious heart. I'd like her even more if she can make homemade snowberry pie." At Wolf's glare, Benor smiled. "What's her name?"

Wolf was silent, an emotionless look on his face, though a muscle worked in his jaw.

"Fianna." Wolf finally murmured, and despite his slow wit, Benor caught the hint of emotion hidden behind the Commander's even tone and impassive countenance.

Benor forced the knowing smile from his face. "So… what is she to you?"

Wolf grunted dismissively, just as Benor knew he would. The Commander kept his thoughts, emotions, and feelings to himself. But sometimes Benor could see them through the cracks in the armor he kept around himself.

_What is Fianna to me?_ Wolf mused, his dark eyebrows pulled together as he pondered Benor's question. He honestly didn't know. All he knew was that he wanted her. He wanted her with a primal intensity that surprised him. He also wanted to take Drake under his wing and show the boy a few things about becoming a man and a Nord, which reminded him a little of himself at that age, being taken in by Kodlak. But those things would require Fianna and Drake to stay with him at the Blades fortress, or him to go with them, both of which he knew were impossible.

Wolf stared down at his reflection in the water and grimaced. The dragon's fire had singed off the right side of his beard and hair. Frowning, he retrieved his dagger. With a regretful grimace, he shaved his beard off and cut his hair short to the length he used to wear it at. He ran a hand through his hair and scowled. The cut looked strange on his now larger frame and more rugged and harsh face. Grumbling with irritation at having to shave his beard and cut his hair, Wolf got out of the stream and put on the clothes Benor brought for him.

While the Commander dressed, Benor got his first good look at his new look and burst out laughing. "Talos, you look terrible without a beard."

Wolf glowered at him as he donned the heavy black mantle.

Benor gave the Commander a lopsided grin. "And Aela's going to kill you for cutting your hair. You know how much she liked it long."

Wolf grimaced as he scratched his clean-shaven cheek, unaccustomed to the air hitting his skin. "Where is the huntress?"

"Out looking for you, of course," Benor supplied as if it were obvious. "We all thought you'd gotten captured again by the Dragon Cult. But we'll get a note out to her to let her know you're okay and back home."

Wolf ran a hand through his shortened onyx hair again as he followed Benor back to the keep, the Nord catching him up on all that he'd missed.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

In a warm bed within one of the many rooms in the Blades fortress, Fianna stirred, half awake, a small sound pulling her out of a fitful sleep.

Fianna rolled over in the bed with a groan, her outstretched arm searching for Drake. Her eyebrows pulled together as she touched nothing but sheets.

The bed was empty.

As Fianna sat up quickly in alarm. She opened her eyes with a start and looked around. The semi-darkened room was completely unfamiliar. It was a large bedchamber with a brass bedstead. A water pitcher and washbasin sat on the bureau, while a pile of woolen blankets were stacked neatly in a wooden rocking chair. A small cast-iron stove stood in one corner, giving off a welcoming warmth.

As she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, everything came rushing back to her. She remembered, and was instantly on edge. She swiftly looked herself over for injuries from the dragon attack and was surprised to find herself not injured, but also freshly washed, clean, and dressed in a soft kirtle and a gunna of lavender wool over it.

She frowned. She never wore skirts. She hated them. She preferred armor. She felt safe in armor.

These weren't her clothes.

That was when she noticed the two plain gold bands around her wrists. Puzzled, she held them in front of her eyes, examining them. She tried to find the clasp to unhook them, but there was no clasp. She tried to pry them off, but they wouldn't budge. Her pulse raced as her hand flew up to touch the gold band about her neck that looked more like a collar than a necklace. There was magic in these simple golden bands, and she had an ominous feeling that it wouldn't bode well for her.

_What in the name of Azura is going on?_

Muddled and starting to feel uneasy and apprehensive, Fianna eased her body from the bed, her hand going to the bump on her head that throbbed, the gold band sliding down her arm. Confused, she looked around the room, trying to figure out where she was and what was going on.

It was then that she realized how quiet the room was.

She was alone.

She swallowed convulsively as the cold hand of fear gripped her.

_Drake. Where is Drake?_

She suddenly felt dizzy, nauseated, panic edging to the surface. Worry and fear in equal measure began to gnaw at her brain as she frantically searched the large bedchamber and the living quarters connected to it. Her packs were all located in the room, neatly assembled against the wall.

But there was no sign of Drake. Nothing. He was nowhere to be seen.

Fianna stood in the middle of the living quarters, standing in the middle of the room, her hands trembling fists at her sides. She felt a wail of terror congeal in her throat. Her chin trembled as she fought the suffocating dread and utter helplessness as every fear she'd had in the past six years came rushing forward until her breath came fast and ragged.

_Oh, gods. My baby. They've taken my baby!_

Her hand flew to her mouth, covering a sob. Her eyes widened with terror, her alarm spiking as her hand cupped her bare mouth, her fingers frantically touching her bare face.

Her mask was gone.

Her hand flew up to touch her hair that was uncovered and unbound.

Her cowl was gone.

An icy river of dread ran along her spine, a cold terror trickling and spreading through her body.

_Sweet Mara, someone has my son!_

Fianna's lungs expanded, desperately trying to catch her breath, but the panic that had lodged itself in her throat prevented it. Her heart clenched with the worst kind of pain. It was what she had feared most.

Talos, this couldn't be happening. This wasn't real. Any minute she was going to wake from this horrible nightmare. Haunting memories of the night she'd gotten the scar on her face surfaced unbidden, bringing tears to her eyes.

She took a deep breath and shoved those unwanted memories to the back of her mind and forced the tears from her eyes. She was stronger than this. She hadn't allowed herself to cry in six years. She wouldn't allow herself to cry now. Not when her son needed her.

Fianna closed her eyes, pressing her clasped and trembling hands to her forehead in prayer. She had to remain calm. She was no help to Drake if she became hysterical. Hysteria, she had learned a long time ago, was a useless reaction.

Growing up in the orphanage, all she'd ever wanted was a family. And now she had one. A family of her very own. It may be small, and it may be broken, but it was _hers_ and it was wonderful. The most precious thing. It was all she had.

Her eyes slowly opened, glowing with the power of the Dragonborn as she stood tall, her face set with resolve. She would find her son. She would protect him. All others be damned.

Her jaw tight with resolve, Fianna quickly donned a pair of soft hide boots set on the floor beside the bed. She then made her way silently from the room. With a low creak of hinges, Fianna pulled open the door and slid outside.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The moment they entered the fortress, Benor left Wolf's side and headed for the dining hall where everyone was gathered for dinner. Though he was starving and the food smelled delicious, Wolf headed straight for the tower where Fianna's room was located. It seems Benor had taken it upon himself to put Fianna and Drake in the room across from his.

Wolf wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Benor had said Drake was in the kitchens with Brill who was fixing the boy a plate of dinner. Apparently, the boy had charmed the entire kitchen staff into preparing him a bowl of snowberries and cream. Wolf's mouth ticked in the corner with a smile that couldn't be repressed.

He strode purposefully down a long hallway with plush crimson carpeting whose walls were lined with sconces made of goat horn heading for the stairs that would lead him to Fianna's bedchamber. Frowning, he scratched his bare cheek, missing his beard already.

Trying to come up with what he was going to say to Fianna to get her to stay for a little while, Wolf turned the corner and came to an abrupt halt when his eyes collided with the back of a woman standing at the end of the hallway.

The woman was short with a slender figure, her slight curves accentuated by the mauve gunna she wore. But it was her hair that caused everything inside of him to come to a hard, freezing stop. Her hair fell loose like a heavy mantle down her back to brush against her hips.

Her hair was golden, like the color of pure sunlight.

The woman's body visibly tensed, as if she felt his scrutiny, and she slowly turned to face him. The blazing light cast from the sconces on the wall created flickering shadows on the woman as her face came into his view.

His heart stopped beating, it stopped beating in his chest.

In the soft light she was… too enchanting to be real. Her milky-white skin was smooth and flushed. Her lips were pink, full and luscious. Her facial features were soft, delicate, and exceedingly feminine. A thin white scar ran from the edge of her right eyebrow down to her chin, though it did nothing to diminish her loveliness.

And her eyes… Talos help him… he recognized those eyes. They were large and expressive doe-like eyes that were the richest shade of green and lined with thick full lashes that were so long they tangled in the corners.

They were Fianna's eyes.

But seeing them now… set within that small, unforgettable porcelain face… he also knew that they were Faye's eyes.

For a moment, it was as if time stood still. His surroundings, the keep, the sounds of his men's laughter and chatter coming from the dining hall, just fell away in that moment. All he could do was stare at her, his nerves fraying with each pulsing second, as her chin slowly lifted and her eyes opened into his.

His chest constricted as he fell head first into those deep green pools of liquid malachite glittering in the firelight. He tried to drag in a breath, but it was as if a boulder was crushing his chest. Moving, breathing, thinking - impossible. His heart was a staccato beat against his ribcage as he tried to control his breathing.

He blinked, sure this was a hallucination, or a nightmare his subconscious had conjured up.

He blinked again.

She was still there, staring right back at him.

_Faye_.

It was her.

She was alive and more beautiful than the memories that haunted his dreams. Her - standing in front of him - struck him like a blow to his vitals, arousing pleasant and painful memories, sending his thoughts spinning backward in time.

This was the woman he'd fallen for.

This was the first woman he'd loved.

This was the _only_ woman he'd ever loved.

"Faye?" He hadn't realized he'd spoken until he heard the sound of his own damaged and grating voice rasping out the syllables of her name.

Those jade orbs narrowed slightly as she searched his face, searching for identification but not finding it. She didn't recognize him, he realized.

Several heartbeats later, those green orbs slowly widened with recognition until they were as large as saucers in her small, heart-shaped face. Those eyes were filled with utter shock, raging alarm, and wistful melancholy. They became glassy as they flitted back and forth between his, her lips parting in a silent cry, her chin trembling. Her hand reached out to grab hold of the wall for support, as if she was going to faint.

"V-Vilkas?" Her voice was soft like summer rain, breaking slightly, too many emotions in her voice and face to define in her expression or thoughts.

For the longest moment, Vilkas stared at Faye in frozen shock, as an old wound was ripped open inside of him. The pain she'd inflicted was still raw and fresh even after all these years, an unhealed wound festering inside him. His senses were suddenly filled with the echoed images of his memories with her. Of the days he loved her and she loved him back. Of the days he searched for her and the nights he cursed her.

In the blink of an eye, it all hit him at once like a dragon's tail to the gut – all of the hurt and agony, the grief and anguish, the loneliness and despair that this woman had caused him.

Every emotion slowly bled from his body until there was nothing but pure, uncut hatred. It was like a living, breathing thing - his hate - inside his chest, digging its claws into his soul and shredding it to pieces.

Unadulterated rage contorted Vilkas' features, turning them dark and murderous and terrifying, as an erupting volcano of anger and bitterness and loathing that had six long years to fester and turn rotten exploded within him.

She said she loved him.

_She lied_.

She wore his mother's wedding ring and promised him forever.

_She lied_.

She promised he would be the only one.

_She lied_.

She left him standing at the altar without a backward glance to be humiliated in front of all of his friends and family, to be made a fool in front of all of Skyrim.

This woman had no heart, and if she did, he was certain it was as black as the hells of Oblivion.

Rampant, inconceivable bloodlust pumped wildly through him, numbing his mind with a killing rage the likes of which he'd never felt before. His blood roared through his veins like wildfire, burning and stinging as his mind screamed for blood. Her blood. His entire body was shaking violently with murderous intent until he saw nothing but red.

This was the woman who betrayed him.

This was the woman he hated with every fiber of his being.

This was the woman he was going to kill.

His sword cleared its sheath before he realized he'd drawn it. Vilkas flew across the hall like a streak of lightning across the sky. His body slammed into hers, which was as rigid as a plank with shock and they flew backwards together until her back slammed hard into the wall behind her.

Vilkas glared hatefully down at Faye with flames of wrath raging in his hardened grey eyes while he held the razor-sharp edge of his blade to her delicate neck. His lips drew back from white teeth and a low growl rumbled in his throat. He looked wild and feral, like a wolf set to seek vengeance on a hated enemy.

He wanted her to bleed. Slowly. He wanted her to feel the same pain he'd felt. He wanted her to suffer the same way he'd suffered. He wanted her to die the same way he'd died. Anything else would be too merciful.

His body began to tremble with the need for vengeance, his knuckles turning white around the hilt of his sword. With one flick of his wrist, he could be free of her. He wanted his life back - the life free of pain, anger, and sleepless nights. Her death could damn well give it back, he was sure of it.

But gods dammit, he couldn't kill her. Not yet. Paarthurnax wouldn't allow it. She was the Dragonborn. The Blades had been searching for her for years. The Blades needed answers, answers he knew she had. It was clear to him now that her being in Dawnstar when the dragon had been resurrected was no mere coincidence.

She knew something.

She knew something about what had happened to Alduin's soul. He needed to know what she knew. He needed to destroy Alduin's soul.

He would get the answers he needed from her, one way or another.

Despite what his rational mind was telling him, his body shook with the effort not to drag the blade deep across her neck and be done with her forever, obtaining the revenge he wanted, and deserved.

With the sharp blade pressed against her carotid artery and her face completely drained of color, Faye could do nothing but stare into black-grey eyes that were nearly black with rage, his compressed mouth white with fury. Loathing, anger, and disgust were carved into every inch of his chiseled face. He radiated such a powerful aura of black menace and animosity that he was more like a daedra sent from the Deadlands to devour her soul than a man.

_Vilkas…_

Shock at seeing him again turned Faye's legs to water, a haze of unreality surrounding her. Her heart pounded so hard she felt physically ill. The earth seemed to be crumbling as her carefully constructed world fell apart around her. Her body was frozen stiff, unresponsive, her thoughts a welter of disbelief, panic, confusion, and dread.

_No. It can't be_, she thought as she tried to fight all rational thinking that told her this was Vilkas. _It's impossible. It can't be him. He's in Whiterun with his wife and three children. He is the Harbinger of the Companions, not Commander of the Blades. It doesn't even look like him. It's impossible. His eyes… they aren't the same color. Eyes don't just change color. It's impossible. Impossible_, she thought frantically as she continued to wage war with reality.

But the truth sliced her open as she stared up at the cruel visage that was glaring down at her with such undiluted animosity, knowing only one man on earth could hate her this much.

This close, she took in the differences and similarities in him. He was older, bigger – angrier. A long, angry scar ran across his throat, as if a blade had been dragged across it. Six years was a long time. When she'd seen him last, he'd still been a boy getting ready to head to the front lines of the Stormcloaks to defend his country.

He wasn't a boy anymore. No, he was a man. A powerful, angry man. She swallowed her apprehension and fought the overwhelming terror. He had every reason to hate her this much, but it was still painful and devastating to see. Her body was shaking, violently, the iciness of reality coursing through her as she stared into his black-grey eyes that were so full of hate and murder she was certain of only one thing… Vilkas wanted to spill her blood.

Her first thought – run. Run like hell. Run and never look back.

"M-Mommy…?"

They both turned their heads to the side to see Drake standing at the end of the hallway holding Brill's hand. The little boy's mop of obsidian hair was falling across his forehead into his forest green eyes that were wide and fearful, his fingers digging into Meeko's fur as if for support. The giant, grey-furred warhound growled in Vilkas' direction, his teeth bared in warning.

For the first time, fear entered Faye's eyes. Seeing her little boy alive and well instantly zapped her from her stunned daze as inherent instinct to protect her child took hold. Faye loved her son with everything that was in her. She would fight for his freedom, safety, and happiness with her last breath.

And if there was something she was good at, it was fighting.

Jade orbs backed by dragon fire slowly lifted to lock with arctic black-grey. Her eyes held a silent plea for him to release her, an unspoken warning that if he did not remove his blade from her throat that she would be forced to defend herself. Her Thu'um lived and breathed inside of her, was an integral part of who she was. But when she tried to call upon it for the first time in sex years, she realized with a start that it wouldn't come. It was as if something was… blocking it.

Hiding her horror at not being able to draw her power, Faye's emerald green warred with slate grey until finally the brittle tension flowed out of Vilkas' body. With obvious great reluctance, the Commander of the Blades withdrew his sword from the Dragonborn's throat. Slowly, he lowered his arm and stared at her, accusing, as if she had bested him in some way.

The moment the sword left her throat, Faye ran as fast as she could away from Vilkas, scooping Drake up and into her arms without stopping, hugging him protectively to her as she fled, Meeko at her heels and Brill scratching his head.

For an endless moment, Vilkas stared after Faye even after she was gone from his sight. He could barely see or think straight. He couldn't remember being so angry before. Not when the Silver Hand had killed Kodlak, not when the assassin had slit open his throat, not when he'd been captured and tortured by the Dragon Cult. There was a fiery gnawing in every fiber of his body screaming for retribution. He wanted to throttle her. He wanted to lock her in a room and destroy the damn key.

The raven-haired Nord ran a shaky hand down his face, a throbbing ache behind his eyes.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

Turning, Vilkas sheathed his sword and strode out into the central courtyard and called to the keeper of the gate, "Raise the drawbridge!"

Almost at once a tremendous grinding of chains sounded as the huge wooden bridge was slowly raised.

"And do not lower the drawbridge for anyone but me!" Vilkas ordered harshly.

"Yes, sir!" the gatekeeper called back.

Vilkas stalked back to the keep like a wolf retreating to his lair, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, the black scowl on his face vicious enough to send those unfortunate souls that were unlucky enough to get into his path scurrying away from him with a fright.

Faye Ashhart.

She was back in his life due to a horrible quirk of fate, ready to ruin it again. Talos, she looked so different he hardly recognized her. Her face was more mature and she seemed taller, softer than she had before. And how did she get that scar on her face?

A thousand thoughts and questions flew through his mind. Though one thing was for certain. Faye wasn't leaving. Not yet. There were too many unanswered questions and he wanted answers for the Blades, and for himself. Hell, he deserved some gods damn answers. And until he got them he wasn't letting her go, whether she liked it or not.

**Author's Note**: This chapter has a soundtrack: _Run _by Nicole Scherzinger. You can hear the whole song for free on YouTube.


End file.
